


Mating Games Round 2 Challenge 4: Light Vs. Dark

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, BDSM, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Cock Cages, Daddy Kink, Dark, Domestic, Doppelganger, Drugs, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fucking Machines, Gags, Implied/Referenced Torture, Knotting, M/M, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Schmoop, Sex Work, Spanking, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Underage Sex, Violent Sex, Voyeurism, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 18:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 101,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the entries for week two, round two of the Mating Games pornathon challenge on LJ.</p><p>For details on what this challenge is: <a href="http://mating-games.livejournal.com/14113.html">FAQ</a> on LJ</p><p>If you'd like to vote for any of these, you are welcome to even if you aren't a participant in this challenge. You can read how to vote and cast your votes here: <a href="http://mating-games.livejournal.com/18847.html">Voting Post!</a></p><p>In this challenge, teams are already set so we aren't taking any new writers/artists, but you are welcome to participate as a reader/voter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Group A (with warnings)

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING -- chapters 4 and 8 contain artwork that is not safe for work (NSFW).

1.  
 **Warnings:** Exhibitionism  
 **Pairing:** Danny Mahealani/Stiles Stilinski

He's pretty sure Danny recognizes him. 

He _hopes_ Danny recognizes him in spite of the dimly lit club. The only thing visible against the moving shadows of dancing bodies is the white body paint getting illuminated under the black lights. But Danny would definitely notice the runes Stiles had carefully painted on his chest and arms before coming to the club. 

The dropping bass pounds in Stiles' ears. The sweat dampens the hair at the back of his neck. He can't move an inch without rubbing against someone on the dance floor. He stops craning his neck in the hopeless pursuit of spotting Danny, and he gives in to the music. 

Stiles raises his arms to show off the runes and swivels his hips to the beat, pushing his ass back in an exaggerated move. A strong arm catches him around his waist and fixes him in place to rub right against the crotch of the man who caught him. 

He feels warm breath against his neck. “You want this?” It's Danny's voice in his ear.

Stiles grabs Danny's hand and brings it down to his own crotch, where he is so achingly hard that his affirmative answer is obvious. 

Danny pulls his hand from Stiles' grasp, and his fingers trail a path up Stiles' chest. Danny finds a nipple and pinches it, making Stiles arch his back. The motion pushes his ass even further against Danny, who Stiles can feel straining against his tight denim. 

The song changes. The bodies around them don't stop. 

As the beat picks up, the strobe lights come on, and all Stiles can see is the beautiful, stilted flickering of white shapes writhing and twisting. It's so much to take in that he closes his eyes and focuses until all he can feel is Danny's chest against his back and Danny's hand flicking open the button of his jeans and reaching down to grab his cock. 

No one will be able to see, Stiles knows, but the thought that they're doing this _here_ , out in public, is enough to make his pulse race faster and his breath get shorter. 

The grip on his dick is familiar, and the last bit of doubt flees Stiles' mind that Danny is the man behind him. 

He opens his eyes again to the buzz of sensation all around him. Stiles gets lost in the rhythm of the beat. His hips roll almost of their own accord as he thrusts into Danny's hand. All around him are swirling white images getting illuminated and then shrouded again by darkness at the whims of the lights and the smoke. 

He throws an arm up and grabs the back of Danny's neck. Their sweat mingles between their bodies, but Stiles wants him even closer. He wants every inch of Danny against him. Danny's hips start to move right along with his, and for a few blissful moments, it's like they're one being, gyrating to the music pulsing around them.

It doesn't last, but of course it can't last. Stiles needs to come, and Danny knows Stiles' body better than he knows his own. His hand picks up speed and pressure, squeezing Stiles just where he likes, rubbing his thumb on the underside of the head with every stroke. Danny's lips are at Stiles' neck, and the flick of a wet tongue against his hot skin makes Stiles shiver. 

A few more strokes and Stiles cries out. The music swallows his voice as Danny milks the last few drops of come from his pulsing cock. 

It takes Stiles a few moments to come back to himself and the dark room with the irradiated dancing shapes. 

He tucks himself back into his jeans while Danny smears the mess in his hand across Stiles' belly. His come will glow under the black lights, but it will blend in with the runes so no one but Danny will be the wiser. 

Stiles laughs as he turns around. His lips find Danny's immediately like a homing beacon drawing him out of the madness of the thrumming music and the club and the realization of what they just did, of what Danny just did _for_ him. 

“What about you?” Stiles has to shout so Danny can hear. 

“Later,” Danny shouts back. “You can pay me back when we get home.” 

“Deal,” Stiles says against Danny's lips. 

He throws his arms around Danny's neck, and together they dance.

* * *

2.  
 **Warnings:** None  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

The light is bright, warm in direct counterpoint to everything else surrounding Stiles in his mind. The nogitsune has made everything dark and cold, and Stiles just needs some reprieve. He knows what awaits him in the light, though. Knows he won’t ever be able to leave once he steps foot in there. 

He finds another place to hide instead, dark and unwelcoming, but private. Stiles closes the door behind him. He isn't expecting the glowing blue eyes that come out of the darkness. 

...

"Where've you been?" Stiles asks. "I've needed you. Don't know what I'm doing."

"What makes you think I do?" Derek asks. "We're _all_ lost."

Stiles doesn't care how right Derek is. He's just relieved to see him. He closes the distance between them, wraps his arms around Derek. 

"Don't leave me."

"I won't," Derek says, his hands warm against the cold skin of Stiles' back where his shirt skimmed up. 

...

Derek doesn't leave, but Stiles does. He hears the nogitsune calling to him, voice gravelly, sending chills up Stiles' spine. 

"You don't have to go," Derek tells him. But Stiles _does_ have to. He can't stand the thought of the nogitsune finding Derek here, in this dark, hidden spot in Stiles' mind. Can't stand the thought of it using Derek against him the way it used Stiles' love of Scott. 

"I have to," he says, slipping out of the room with one last pleading look. 

_Don't go. Please don't go._

…

“You can’t do anything to save them, Stiles. Even your friends know you’re weak.”

Stiles looks down at his hands, imagines a greater strength in them than he has. The thought fades as quickly as it formulates. Stiles knows he isn’t strong in body.

He’s strong in mind, though, and he thinks he may be able to hang onto that.

…

It’s comfort. Derek is here for Stiles’ comfort, and Stiles uses him for that even though he knows it isn’t real. He pushes up onto his hands, putting space between his chest and Derek’s. He’s almost afraid to look, but he has to see. His gaze slides down to the space between them as he rolls his hips, sees their cock’s sliding together, and almost comes from the sight alone.

“Fuck,” Stiles hisses, slamming his eyes shut to block the view.

Derek slides his fingers through Stiles’ hair, whispers to him that it’s okay, it’ll be all right, but Stiles doesn’t think even imaginary Derek knows that.

…

"He'll be dead, too, you know? The former alpha. He's weakened and she knows it."

Stiles forces his body to cooperate despite the nogitsune's control. With shaking hands, he sets up the chessboard, hoping beyond all hope they'll decode his private message. 

_Keep Derek safe._

The nogitsune doesn't seem to understand, but its hold on him doesn't allow Stiles to betray its secrets. Stiles can't force his hand to cooperate when he tries to write Kate's name on the sticky note, so he settles for _Argent,_ prays that they grasp it. 

…

"You know this isn't real."

"Don't care." Stiles' voice echoes in the quiet, rolls off the walls of his own mind tinny and distant. "You're here now. That's what matters." He kisses Derek again, arches into every touch. 

Derek groans, thrusts up into Stiles. "You're so warm," he says, eyes closed, head tipped back. "Hot inside."

The comment snaps at Stiles' awareness, threatens to pull him out of this and into something dreadful. Stiles isn't hot _anywhere_. He's cold all over, inside and out, with the nogitsune occupying his space. 

He shakes off the thought and grinds his hips down. 

_Please stay. Just, stay with me._

...

"I’m not playing your games anymore." Stiles holds his breath against the stink of soiled bandages and rotting flesh. 

"Oh, you'll play, Stiles. You'll play, or they'll all die." 

Stiles’ own footfalls echo through the open room; bright, almost blinding lights shine from above. He curls his legs under him as he sits atop the Nemeton and stares down at the game board. 

_Scott,_ he thinks. _Derek, Lydia..._

Stiles can't lose. It's not an option. 

He's torn, shredded into pieces with part of him here, playing a game he doesn't know how to win, and part of him with Derek, hidden and safe. 

Stiles is only able to pull himself together, to regain the reins of his own sanity when he hears Scott's roar pulling at his will, tugging from inside Stiles like a force he doesn't recognize. 

Safe, aware, _warm._

* * *

3.  
 **Warnings:** sex to escape from angst  
 **Pairing:** Allison/Scott, Allison/Isaac, Allison/Lydia

Allison needs out of her head and nothing’s working - not practicing, not schoolwork. She fears if she runs any more laps she’ll run away and never look back. But she’s the _Argent Princess_ and she has responsibilities. 

(Disney movies lie. “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”)

So that’s where Allison’s at when she asks for help, for sex. Despite the fact she knows that what’s between her and Scott is ending, and having Isaac here will complicate matters, because he likes her as more than a one night stand, but right now she doesn’t care, and she trusts Lydia and their friendship will be unaffected by lust.

(She thought about an orgy, but honestly, five other people would be a bit greedy just for her.)

Allison picks Scott to go first; he knows the rhythms of her body well and he warms her up sweetly with his mouth, licking her inner lips and moving up her body to lap at her belly and tease her breasts. She gestures Isaac over so she can kiss him, and when he shyly asks, gladly mouths his balls and twists the head of his cock.

(Lydia watches with dark eyes and a knowing smirk from her place at Allison’s desk. In the faint light, Allison can see a sheen of wetness on Lydia’s panties and wonders what she has planned.)

Isaac scoots back when Scott looks up to ask if she’s ready. She simply hands Scott a condom and watches as he puts it on. Scott crawls eagerly up the bed to her and leans down to kiss her tenderly. He trails his hand along her side to rub along her hipbone.

When Allison arches up, Scott parts her inner folds and finally, guides his cock in. She just wants to enjoy the fuck, and she yanks his hips down hard so she can completely envelop his dick. She makes eye contact and sees that Scott is already blissed out so she gently starts to move, to guide his thrusting. He looks so wondrous she has to kiss him. They continue to kiss through his orgasm.

Isaac’s waiting on the far side of the room, and not only is he hard, but is also practically salivating at the sight of her, which is frankly very flattering. He says that watching her was one of the most beautiful things he’s seen. It doesn’t matter that she’s already flushed from exertion, at Lydia’s snort and Scott’s laugh, she blushes anyway. 

Isaac holds out a condom and shuffles his feet anxiously. He mutters that he’s not exactly sure what to do and attempts a smile at her. Allison grabs his hand and pulls him close. The astonished look on his face at the feeling of her rolling the condom up his cock is an image that will stay with her for a long time.

Allison pulls him in to sit beside her on the bed and goes to kiss him. She can tell he’s wired, pulls back a little bit. She lays him down on her pillows and straddles him, guides him into her. It doesn’t take long for Isaac to finish, but that’s okay, the way he looks into her eyes and smiles is the best reward. She’s already looking forward to the next time they can have sex.

When Allison is alone on the bed, Lydia is right there, peering into her eyes. Lydia has on a strap-on and is holding a small vibrator. Lydia smiles sweetly, viciously. Where anyone else would be apprehensive, Allison is excited. Lydia won’t let her take control like the boys will, and the thought is hot. 

Allison is almost holding her breath when she is physically turned onto her side. Lydia is careful guiding the dildo into her, but that is where any gentleness ends. Lydia fucks into her roughly and grinds the vibrator into her clit, forcing Allison to climax. 

When her breathing has finally calmed down and Lydia has wiped the two of them up, Allison looks around the room for the boys. Scott and Isaac are wide-eyed and huddled together in the corner. Allison gestures them over so they can all snuggle together. Scott and Isaac end up on one side of her, cuddled together like the wolves they are. Lydia has arranged Allison to her liking, making Allison the big spoon.

(But hours later, Allison is still awake. Will nothing quiet her foreboding, dark thoughts?)

* * *

4.  
 **Warnings:** Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

“The PACK is responsible for over a thousand cyber violations, so Alpha, Kitsune, Void, Banshee, Huntress,” the Officer brought up a series of files on the screen across from Derek, grainy photos that could have been anyone followed by possible profiles “which one are you and where can we find the rest?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Derek’s smile was sharp. His hands were strapped to the arm of the dull silver interrogation chair in a room that had seen better days. 

“Bullshit,” the Officer had burnout veins mapping the right side of his face and was about as unfriendly as Downtown Officers got. “You dumped your hardware but still got PACK written all over,” he spat out. “We already sent your blood work to Corporate and as soon as you’re pegged in the system you’ll be spending the rest of your life in a dark hole in the ground.” He folded his arms across his chest “So why don’t you help yourself out a little.”

The lights flickered and Derek glanced away from them, watching the beats, _one_ , _one_ , _two_ _one_ , _one_. He didn’t smile; it was a near thing though. Derek flexed the muscles in his arms in preparation “You should really get your electricity checked.”

The room plunged into darkness and the door exploded inward with a bang.

\------------------------

“Holy crap,” Stiles tossed Derek his gear already moving to check that the hallway was empty. “That was awesome.” He touched the interface on his wrist, checking in with Scott and the others that he’d got the Wolf

Derek rolled his eyes as he got the ping. His own interface was locking into place, the world around Derek opening up just a little bit more than what we could hear and see. He was connected again to the others. 

Stiles was a warm presence at his side as they walked through the Blackout zone, Derek leading him around a now defunct checkpoint with a hand on his hip. The scanners were down but they couldn’t risk tripping anything if it had extra juice. 

“Where’s our exit point?” The night vision that his interface was relaying to his eyes kept flickering, the EMP Stiles had used even affecting their own equipment.

Stiles wrapped an arm around Derek’s waist. “Right about here and it’s less of an exit and more of a temporary layover.” He held out his other arm, a cable shooting into the ceiling. Derek clipped himself to Stiles as they shot up into one of Stiles Illusions, his specialty.

\------------------------

The space was small, shaped more like a closet than anything else and Derek could feel where Stiles was pressed up tightly against him. The Armor was ridged but flexible, conforming to their bodies enough that the close quarters weren’t uncomfortable. Most Armor was stiff and heavy, not Lydia’s. She designed them to fit like a second skin.

“Okay, so the Blackout is timed to last for an hour, we could clear out now but standard procedure means they’re going to expect that and are swarming the area. Once an hour past most of them will be out there looking for you.” Stiles breathed against his neck, voice soft.

Derek nodded, pressing his nose into Stiles neck to inhale his scent “They sent a sample of my blood to the Corporate.” Derek didn’t need to tell him what happened to Werewolves once they were discovered.

“Scott intercepted it.” Stiles promised turning his head and their lips where meeting in a soft kiss. “A week Derek…” Stiles sounded broken. Derek had been picked up in a raid. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek kissed him back harshly hands going for Stiles belt “let me make it up to you.” He pulled back in the space given to give Stiles a soft smile “An hour right?”

Stiles eyes widened with adrenaline and lust “Oh yeah, yes please.” He let Derek press him against the wall and Derek fell to his knees gracefully in front of him. He let out a soft moan as Derek’s mouth engulfed his dick, cutting off the feed from his interface that was sending back his heart rate to Lydia and the rest of the PACK. Some things they preferred to keep private.

\------------------------

The street around them flashed to life in blinding lights and billboards as they exited the downtown holding cells, a system reset. Stiles only looked a little dazed, zipper half way undone, and his hand wrapped in Derek’s.

Derek looked more than a little smug.

* * *

5.  
 **Warnings:** None?  
 **Pairing:** Chris/Derek

Derek held back a smile when Chris answered the door in nothing but a towel.

"Come in," Chris said, stepping aside. "Just got back from a run and need a quick shower before we go. I have a few books open on my desk if you want to look while you wait." Derek thought it looked like Chris gave him a once-over before he turned. "More on the Nogitsune."

Derek nodded and headed into Chris's office, glancing quickly over his shoulder as Chris disappeared into the bathroom. He sat and picked up one of the books, unable to focus as soon as he heard the shower start. He set the book on the desk and ran his hand over the outline of his cock in his jeans. Chris did something to him he couldn't explain, and he was struck with an idea. It was risky, but he'd been waiting for too long. He could never just tell Chris how he felt; he wasn't great at explaining his emotions.

He stood and flipped off the light in the office, wandering through the apartment making sure every room was dark. He moved quickly and all that was left was the light in the bathroom where Chris was showering. Moving slowly and quietly, he stopped with his back against the wall right outside the bathroom. Chris left the door open. He took in a deep breath and let it out before reaching through the door and pushing down the switch.

"Derek?" Chris called. "Is that you?"

"It's the power," Derek answered, suddenly hoping there were no other electronics in the bathroom to give him away. He didn't see any light through the doorway, but he didn't have the best view of the whole room. "Lights are out in the whole apartment."

"Damn it," Chris yelled. "I'll have to check the breaker box. I'd ask you but it's locked up."

"No, wait," Derek said as he moved to stand in the doorway. "It's dark and you're wet. Let me come in and help you to it. I can see better in the dark anyway."

There was a moment of silence in which Derek assumed Chris was considering his offer. "Okay," Chris replied. "There's a towel on the rack by the door."

Derek kicked off his shoes and stepped into the bathroom, not even acknowledging the towel. He opened the door to the shower and smiled to himself when he saw Chris standing there. He couldn't make him out perfectly but he could see enough to know that Chris was sporting a semi - a fact that caused Derek's cock to press against the fabric of his jeans.

"I got you," Derek whispered as he reached in and put one arm around Chris's shoulder and the other on his bare ass. He pulled Chris toward him, allowing his hand to slide across Chris's ass cheek so that a finger was pressed lightly against his hole. Derek could feel Chris's body tense at the sensation and heard him gasp.

"Derek, your finger-- it's--"

"I know," Derek answered. "Is that o--"

"Fuck, Derek," Chris said before Derek could even ask his question. He leaned back so that Derek's fingertip pushed inside of him. "It's more than okay."

Derek took his free hand from Chris's shoulders and unzipped his pants. "I don't have any--"

"On the shelf next to me," Chris said. "Clear bottle."

"You keep lube in your--"

Chris reached back and put a finger to Derek's lips. "Stop talking. I've waited long enough for this already. Just wet your cock and let's go."

Derek grinned. He was glad to know that Chris wanted this just as much as he did. And there was something both amusing and incredibly hot about Chris taking charge of the situation and almost begging for his cock. Without another word, Derek did as instructed, pouring some of the liquid on his hand and stroking himself until he was well-coated. "Don't I need to--"

"Already ready." Chris shook his head. "Just go." He bent over, bracing himself using a bar on the inside of the shower door.

Derek wanted to ask why Chris was already prepped for him, but he was supposed to stop talking. He put his hands on Chris's hips and pushed into him slowly. "Fuck," he muttered. "So much better than I imagined."

"Me, too," Chris whispered.

Derek smiled as he leaned forward to kiss the back of Chris's neck. This had gone much, much better than planned.

* * *

6.  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

Stiles loved mornings. He didn't used to. Mornings meant dragging his ass out of bed after little to no sleep to go to school. But, now he was eighteen and it was summer and mornings meant waking up most of the time next to his super hot boyfriend.

Who really, really liked morning sex.

The sun streaming in the eastern facing windows of the loft woke Stiles slowly. Warm and fuzzy feeling, he stretched and yawned and then rolled over into the sunbeam and half onto Derek who blinked drowsily at him before closing his eyes again.

Not surprisingly, Derek was not a morning person--creature of the night and all--but he was not adverse to being awakened while the sun was still rising if it was done right.

Stiles sliding down his body, tongue trailing over his skin, twirling around his nipples, licking down his treasure trail, was definitely doing it right. Folding his arms behind his head to prop himself up a bit, Derek watched from beneath hooded eyes as Stiles started sucking little hickeys into the taut skin of his hips. It felt good, the bite of pain fading quickly to pleasure as the marks themselves faded.

"They fade too fast," Stiles complained, sucking harder on one hip.

"Still feels good."

Startling, Stiles looked up and flushed. "Didn't know you were that awake yet."

"Not sleeping through this." Derek gave him a small smile and spread his legs so Stiles could slip comfortably between them and down a bit farther until he was propped up over Derek's cock, which was half-hard just from the kisses.

"Time for breakfast." Stiles grinned as Derek rolled his eyes, but it didn't deter him from wrapping his tongue around the tip of his cock, getting it nice and wet before sliding sucking kisses down the shaft. Nuzzling into his balls, he pressed his tongue to Derek's perineum and was rewarded with a groan. As he wrapped one hand around the base of his cock and pumped upwards, he lapped at his balls until Derek squirmed.

Grinning, Stiles looked up at his flushed face. "Yes?"

"Are you going to play all morning?"

"Maybe?"

Derek growled and it sent a shiver of desire through Stiles, but not one of fear, never of fear anymore. Derek liked morning sex but he didn't like dawdling over it. Once he was awake, he wanted to get his day started. It was just one of the little quirks Stiles loved about him.

"Stiles..."

"Yeah, yeah, pushy." His hand resumed pumping and his tongue started following the movement, up and down the shaft until finally it jumped over his knuckles and his mouth sucked in the tip. Derek was fully erect now, so, holding himself up on his free hand, Stiles opened his mouth wide and took him to the edge of his throat.

"Jesus..."

Stiles no longer had a gag reflex.

Grinning around the cock in his mouth he sucked and licked and squeezed his throat muscles around the tip, before pulling back to catch a breath and doing it all over again and again.

Five minutes of that was all it took for Derek to lose control and pump his hips up as he spilled in Stiles' mouth and down his chin. Stiles swallowed what he could, then licked him clean before resting his cheek on Derek's trembling thigh.

The sun warmed his back, and, in the light of the day Derek gave him a happy smile before reaching down to drag him up for a kiss and a hand job.

Yeah, mornings were awesome.

* * *

7.  
 **Warnings:** Rape/Non-con  
 **Pairing:** Nogitsune/Scott

"Listen, Scotty, we both know your history with Stiles," Nogitsune spoke, tapping his temple. "So I'm going to tell you what I want, and you're going to give it to me, understand?"

Scott swallowed roughly, but nodded. He wanted to fight back, to lash out with teeth and claws, but he couldn't hurt Stiles. He knew he was trapped in there somewhere, his own personal hell.

"Such a good Alpha," Nogitsune hummed, caressing long fingers along Scott's cheek, sending a shiver of revulsion down his spine. Normally he would welcome the touch, but this wasn't Stiles.

"Why’re you doing this?" Scott asked, watching the familiar features, seeing none of the brightness he normally saw in Stiles. Only darkness.

"You know why." Hot breath washed over Scott's face as Nogitsune leaned close, capturing his mouth with chapped lips, tongue pressing in as Scott struggled against instinct to give in. "I like pain... strife," he murmured, pulling back, tugging Scott's bottom lip between teeth that seemed sharper than they should.

Scott whimpered, but didn't push him away. He let those fingers grip the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. "I thrive off this," Nogitsune whispered in Scott’s ear, fingertips moving over his skin, lingering on sensitive places only Stiles knew.

Nogitsune reached for the fly of Scott’s jeans, working them open. Scott hated how his body responded to the touch, cock straining at his boxer-briefs as his jeans were pushed down. "Look at you, so eager," he said, shoving down his underwear.

Nogitsune gripped Scott’s chin, forcing him to look at him. "You're going to suck Stiles' dick, Scott. I'm going to fuck your mouth… make you choke. And the best part is," he pushed Scott to his knees. "You're going to love it."

Scott paused, eyes level with the bulge in his jeans. Nogitsune made an impatient sound and Scott swallowed the lump in his throat, his stomach sick with the knowledge of what was happening. 

Scott reached out with trembling fingers, tugging open Nogitsune’s jeans and pulling them down with his boxers. He watched as his cock fell free, heavy and leaking pre-come. Normally, his mouth would be watering at the sight, he'd nuzzle in against the coarse hairs at the base, reveling in the familiar scent. He couldn't do that now, knowing what he knew.

"Open your mouth for me," Nogitsune encouraged, fingers threading through his hair. Scott complied, leaning forward to wrap his lips around the head of his dick, tongue lapping at the underside the way he knew Stiles liked.

Nogitsune's fingers tightened in Scott's hair and suddenly he was thrusting roughly into Scott's mouth. Scott made a sound that was choked off as Nogitsune pressed at the back of his throat. He couldn't breathe, barely holding it together while Nogitsune fucked into his mouth, taking the pleasure that Scott would freely give Stiles. He gasped when he could, lungs burning with each hard fought breath, only to have it stopped short by the thick cock pushing back down his throat, deeper with each thrust.

Tears were streaming down Scott's cheeks and his jaw ached as he struggled to give Nogitsune what he wanted, trying to swallow down his length. He whined as Nogitsune’s thrusts became almost violent, the fingers in his hair tugging painfully as he claimed Scott's mouth. And through this ordeal, Scott’s body betrayed him, his cock aching to be touched, leaking all over himself like he was _enjoying_ it.

Scott felt Nogitsune’s hips stutter, his rhythm lost. He did everything he knew to make him come, tongue and throat working his cock. Then suddenly the hand was gone from his hair, Nogitsune’s cock pulled abruptly from his mouth before he felt the hot splatter of come painting his face, spilling on his tongue. To Scott's shame, that was what dragged him over, untouched, his own come coating his bared stomach and chest.

Scott glanced up at Nogitsune, the returned gaze darker than Stiles' ever was. "You're mine now, wolf." He reached down, smearing his thumb through the come on Scott's cheek, shoving it into his mouth until Scott sucked it clean. Nogitsune watched with obvious interest before disgust colored his features, pulling his thumb from Scott’s mouth. "Disgusting," he spat. "Go clean yourself." He turned and sprawled across a chair, not bothering to tuck himself away. It was the last thing Scott saw before he disappeared into the bathroom to scrub away the loathing he felt for himself.

* * *

8.  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Pairing:** Peter/Stiles

Scott dramatically declares it their 'last summer' a few weeks before college starts, which turns out to be code for 'lets spend every afternoon lounging by Lydia's pool'. 

"Hello, Stiles."

Where apparently Peter is now welcome too. 

"Thirty seconds." Lydia's voice is anything but welcoming, but it's calm. Stiles doesn't bother to open his eyes. Peter casts a cool dark shadow where he blocks the glaring sun from Stiles, he knows where he is.

"Fine. I tracked the omega to the Fountain Motel, room 34. No sign of her but I'll stay out there for a few days in case she comes back."

"Thanks," says Scott, and "I appreciate you helping like this," but Stiles just snorts. 

"He's making himself useful," Scott says when Peter's gone. "I can't-- even Derek thinks--"

"No, it's fine. I think." He squints at where Lydia is making herself comfortable again on her lounger, and she gives him a nod and a quick smile. "It's fine."

 

This isn't fine at all.

Scott would not be okay with this. Lydia would not be okay with this. _Derek_ would not be okay with this, and he makes the worst decisions of anyone Stiles knows.

The motel is cleaner than he remembers, fresher looking. New owners, maybe. It doesn't look like the sort of place an omega as feral as the one they've been looking out for is supposed to be, but maybe they were misinformed.

Room 34 is easy to find.

 

After half an hour, the door opens.

"Shit." Stiles scrambles for the jeep keys, but he knows Peter's already seen him. He's expecting Peter to come over, take the keys off him, maybe rough him up a little.

He shivers.

Peter just gives him a wave, turns, and walks back inside.

What the--

The walk across the parking lot seems to take forever, but it can only be a few seconds. The door is still open, the only light the flickering TV and far-off street lamps.

"You come and report to Scott," Stiles says, hovering in the doorway. "But you always speak to me first. You look at me."

"You look back." Peter is closer than he expected. "Except today."

Stiles is the one who takes the next step forward, surprising himself.

"I've done enough looking," he says, and his hands are on Peter's shoulders, fingers sliding around to grasp his neck, and he's stumbling into a bruising kiss that ends with Stiles pressed against the wall, gasping curses into Peter's mouth.

"Fuck," he stutters out, because Peter's hand is in his jeans, the zipper down in a heartbeat and Stiles has had his fumbles with girls but they'd been as inexperienced as each other, and the hand on his dick right now knows exactly what it's doing.

"I know what you want, Stiles," Peter says, stripping him efficiently, and maybe he does, because he sucks Stiles's dick down like he's been starving for it, using his tongue and just a little teeth that has Stiles stretching up on his tiptoes, shoulders scraping on the wall, jacking him with his hand when he needs to pull off.

It's messy when Stiles comes, with quick jerking thrusts of his hips. He can see streaks glistening across Peter's fist, across his face, his chest, and the hands on him are wet and sticky, smearing it across his hips.

"Sorry," he croaks, but he isn't, and he knows Peter knows that by the way he laughs. It's what he's thought about, when he's looked at Peter, as is the way Peter presses him down into the mattress after that, the way he preps him roughly but thoroughly, the way he mounts him, fucks him without finesse. 

"I can't stay," Stiles says after Peter shudders above him and comes. "My car, everyone knows it, and I've no excuse to be here."

"And I have a rogue omega to listen out for," Peter says, too lightly. 

"Right." Stiles nods, pulling on his t-shirt. "The feral omega who managed to book herself a motel room without eating the manager. I wonder how she did that, exactly?"

"You know werewolves, Stiles." Peter shrugs. "Never short on cunning. Speaking of which--"

Stiles pauses in the doorway. "What?"

"Next time," Peter says, wiping a smear of come off Stiles's face, "don't bring the jeep."

* * *

9.  
 **Warnings:** dystopian au, barebacking  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

“C’mon, c’mon...” Stiles urges Derek closer, hands cupping his neck.

Derek kisses down his ear to his shoulder, pushing off his threadbare vest to get his mouth on Stiles’ chest. It slips to the ash-covered ground, mingling with the dust and dirt. Stiles makes note of where it lays. Useless as it is for warmth during the nightly chills, it’s something to protect him from the daily waste-storms.

The night allows him a different kind of protection.

Hard muscle, coated with soot, presses against him.

Cracked concrete surrounds them, planks of rotted wood collapsed into the skeletal remains of family room. Stiles assumes that’s what it is, crushing Derek against some type of soft chair, a layer of powder coming up in clouds. His dad once described to him the cushioned seats made for families set in family rooms of people’s homes, when they had fixed homes instead of encampments. He’s sure Derek’s never seen anything like it either, a roofed shelter a luxury they can risk only for tonight.

Derek rumbles low in his throat, the sound vibrating through Stiles’ skin. “Take everything off.”

Stiles flails, gasps hard, attempting to follow Derek’s order, eager to display himself, watches as Derek takes off his leather jacket, exposing broad shoulders and cords of muscle molded from routine training the Corps enforces for all its soldiers.

The jacket is folded neatly, put aside meticulously. Stiles smirks. “It’s not made of glass,” Stiles says.

“I take care of gifts.” Derek brushes excess ash off the seat and sits, cock pulled out and laid stiff on his stomach. He motions for Stiles to come.

Stiles smiles and straddles his lap, their hands entwining, cocks slicking each with the other’s precome. Stiles groans.

“Is that why you _fuck_ me so carefully?” He accentuates his point, forces his hips forward in a hard pitch.

Derek growls. “I’ll show you careful, if you stop riding against my dick and start riding _on_ it.” He pushes two fingers between Stiles’ open lips, urging him to suck on them, then quickly pulls them out to finger Stiles’ pucker.

“Message received.” Stiles shudders. “Loud and clear--Der--ah!”

Derek’s finger catches in his hole, dipping in slightly, but returns to circling the outside just as Derek kisses down his collar, biting and sucking his teats in long, soft nips.

Stiles pants. “Explosions make you so horny...”

The friction of Stiles’ cock against Derek’s trail of stomach hair, feels too good. He throws his head back in a moan, Derek’s arm bearing his weight, focuses on the warm splay of Derek’s hand on his spine, his gaze on the bits of ceiling still intact. Some of the charcoal sky is still visible. A finger breeches him fully, and suddenly the sky is dotted with little white lights.

Like the stars, his mother once explained, that existed before the Rapture happened. Before the sky became an overcast cloud of black and brown and grey.

His body trembles as Derek brings his seed from Stiles’ cock to his mouth, kissing away the residue. Derek strips more from him, uses it to wet his own dick, slicking against Stiles’ taint. If they were born in a different time, a different stratum, Stiles thinks, the seed could have taken, become more than just another pollutant to indulge in.

Stiles feels Derek smoothing hands all over him, over his shorn head, his body, naked for him. Still so careful. The thought makes his dick twitch again.

“That was quick.” Derek grins, shifting Stiles to bear down on his cock.

Stiles grips Derek by the ears, breaths fast and harsh. The dust in the air is close to choking; he buries his face in Derek’s neck, layered with sweat and cinder.

They thrust against each other, reach as deep, as close as they can make themselves.

“The broadcasts have probably started,” Stiles puffs, “Bets on them claiming another PCon testing?”

The Corps maintain that unannounced detonations are “pollution containment” field testings, so civilians don't suspect an insurgency.

Derek grunts. “Shh, don’t--just--”

Stiles understands, wraps himself around Derek tightly until he feels a hot gush of liquid inside, clenches his hole for Derek, riding the waves to milk Derek’s cock of all his come.

They razed the Corps' main research facility tonight. Brought the Insurrection to the Corps' full and undivided attention.

For now, that they’re still alive, still together, is all the victory they need.

* * *

10.  
 **Warnings:** Non-con; Nogitsune is in charge  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/Nogitsune (Mentions of Stiles/Derek, Stiles/Lydia)  


Stiles stared into the mirror in his room, his vision hazy and his understanding of what was going on something he had to claw his way toward. It was always like this; each time the Nogitsune loosened the reins enough for Stiles to take control. This time was unlike most of the others, though. Stiles was unable to fully grasp control. Instead, all he could was watch and hear things he’d never witnessed before. 

“Stiles,” the Nogitsune said, voice rasping and sounding foreign to Stiles’ own ears. “So much want inside you, so much need. Do you even realize the darkness that thrives? Or, do you like to pretend that it isn’t there?” 

Watching in horror and unable to do anything about it, Stiles saw his tee shirt tug up and disappear before his own hand reached up to tweak his right nipple hard. Stiles gasped, an action that was echoed by the Nogitsune in the mirror. 

“So many dark, dirty thoughts in your mind, Stiles,” the Nogitsune said, tugging harder at Stiles’ nipple. He left it sore and red before moving on to Stiles’ other nipple. This time the Nogitsune licked a finger and toyed with the nipple until it stood out hard and shining wet. “Do the people around you know just how twisted you are?” 

Stiles gasped in his own mind, unable to fight the movements of his own body. He felt the Nogitsune’s delight in his discomfort and wished he could fight it off, wished that he wasn’t giving it the pain and strife it craved. 

The Nogitsune laughed, low and mean. “So many dark thoughts about Derek, Stiles. There’s so much you want to do to him; ways you want to have him at your mercy, teasing and torturing his orgasms out of him. Does he know, Stiles? Is that why he’s been staying away? Can he tell what you want?” The Nogitsune tugged open Stiles’ jeans, pulling them down to his thighs along with his boxers. 

_No!_ Stiles cried, watching his bare body respond. The Nogitsune had a front row seat to all the things Stiles liked and wanted, using them all against him in vile fashion. _My fantasies aren’t real. I would **never** do that._

“Oh yes, you would, if given half the chance, Stiles,” the Nogitsune laughed loudly, the rasping sound leaving Stiles cringing. The Nogitsune reached down with Stiles’ right hand, curling his fist around Stiles’ cock and stroking him to hardness. It doesn’t take much, or take long before Stiles is hard and leaking, his body betraying his mind. “Now Lydia’s an interesting one. You feel for her so purely and yet there are vivid images in your mind of what she looks like spread out before, your face buried deep in her pussy.” The smirk gracing Stiles’ face looked cruel and he cringed away from it, unable to hide when the Nogitsune wants him present. He watched his own hand stroke, slow and steady at first before speeding up, the curling tendrils of his orgasm gathering in his gut even while he fought off the inevitable. 

Stiles watched, hopeless. His body responded to everything the Nogitsune did and, soon, all Stiles could see was his hips rocking, his cock leaking and his skin flushed red from his face all the way down his chest. He fought against it, trying his best to hold it off, but it was all for nothing when his orgasm overtook his body, his come spurting over his hand and onto the floor in front of him. 

“Oh yes, Stiles. I’m going to have so much fun here in your fantasies,” the Nogitsune taunted while Stiles sobbed and wept inside his own head, hoping against hope that his friends would either save him or put him out of his misery. At this point, Stiles wasn’t sure which one he actually wanted. 

* * *

11.  
 **Warnings:** angst, depression, self-loathing, self-harm.  
 **Pairing:** any male werewolf/omc and solo

 

He rolls his hips and thrusts up again, again, but it doesn't mean anything, doesn't _do_ anything for him. The fire that used to consume him is long extinct. The more people he fucks, the more his heart ices over, and yet, he can't stop. He seeks another partner as soon as he has washed off the smell of the previous in a never-ending search for a fulfillment he knows is dead and buried with his past. 

This guy he picked up at a bar was promising. Now, reduced to moans and squirms and panting, he gives him nothing more than a tight clench of muscles and a light scratch of fingernails, just as meaningless as the rest. Smooth, milky skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and a scent that almost resembles _the one_ still make him a good choice—but it's not enough. It's never enough.

Growling low in his throat, he grabs the man's hips, rolls them over, fucks him so hard and deep that the moans become tinged with pain. He barely notices, is too desperate for a flicker of that bliss, for someone who can erase the memory, maybe even negate the loss. Neither of these things is possible, but somehow, deep inside, that contents him. He _likes_ to ache. He _deserves_ to suffer.

The man underneath him writhes and pushes at his chest. “You're hurting me,” he bites out, and it's only then that he slows down. Clenching his jaw, he forces himself to focus on his anchor, lest he wolf out. The last time this happened, it ended with too much blood and a guilt that still clenches his heart. He's been through enough nightmares for two lifetimes and doesn't need any more.

He kisses an apology on soft lips, writes it on broad shoulders with a ghosting touch of fingertips, and the stranger relaxes. They build a slow-rocking rhythm, making love without attachment. It's dissatisfying. Frustration rises with every thrust until it chokes him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, like bile and heartache, like rotten food and a truth denied.

The stranger comes, but he doesn't. It's okay. He rarely does.

~ ~ ~

The water burns him faster than the healing can repair any damaged tissue. It's delightful, reminiscent of another werewolf's warmth against him when they're both wounded and worn out from battle. He doesn't break his own skin, not tonight, although he longs to bleed, longs to destroy—eradicate—everything that feels like the home so far away, or the pack that is no longer.

Peace of mind, however, requires more than just a wish.

Braced against the steaming hot tiles with one hand, he grabs his cock with the other, starts stroking himself with too much pressure too roughly. Pleasure, although it keeps him alive these days, doesn't come with gentle touches. It demands pain. He cups his balls, squeezing hard until he can't bite back a howl, and the sound triggers the memories. They flood him unfiltered, hitting with so much force that his legs almost give out.

Running under the full moon, with his pack, with his mate. The first heat together: growling, biting, fucking so hard that he thinks there must be blood, but there isn't: only the pleasure of the knot, the delight of belonging, being safe and warm in his mate's arms forever. Forever ending abruptly in violence and bloodshed and he, responsible for the tragedy, fleeing the scene, fleeing his past and his pack and everything that once was good in his life.

Tears run down his cheeks, mix with the water and disappear unnoticed. His cock twitches as if to escape, but he doesn't let go, can't stop until the physical pain exceeds the emotional ache. He comes, panting, hurting so thoroughly that the intensity threatens to overpower him. When he catches his breath, he turns off the hot water, stands under the cold spray until his mind is calm too.

He dresses and goes back out, hunting for another partner, hunting for another chance to feel free. 

One day, when all his sins are forgiven, he'll be whole again, but until then, he lives in self-imposed purgatory.

* * *

12.  
 **Warnings:** Biblical References  
 **Pairing:** Erica/Stiles, Erica/Boyd

The sharp click of heels on concrete as it echoed from further down the alleyway shouldn't have been as menacing as it was but Erica was no fool. Injured as she was there was no way she could handle another fight without using her full strength and to do that would bring down the wrath of the Host and she wasn’t quite ready for that. Not yet, not with the hunger riding her hard and threatening to reduce her to mindless savagery. The risk was too great.

She was meeting an original daughter of Lilith, a true monster like herself, and equally powerful. If she’s decided not to help, if Erica even managed to survive the encounter there would be no recapturing her prey and she’d be twice-damned before allowing the loss of such prize. The Malach brought in for “readjustment” was HER toy and she did not share. Erica ignored the terrifyingly human feeling of guilt that made itself known just then. They would not have taken him back if it hadn’t been for their unnatural attachment to each other.

“Sister.”

The world spun and grew dim at the word, such was the power Lydia held, and for a moment Erica felt the fires of damnation welcoming her home. The Banshee had named her sister though and so the tension bled from her body in an alien rush of relief leaving her to slouch weakly against the nearest wall. “Good to see you too Red,” she groaned.

Lydia’s ignored her, head tilted with interest as she took in Erica’s drained state. “You need to feed? Excellent."

“So glad to oblige. I’m touched that the threat to my existence fits so neatly into your plans,” she drawled sarcastically.

“You’re the one who had the audacity to ensnare a member of the Angelic Host and make him a permanent addition to your food pyramid Succubitch. Do you have any idea how many factions you’ve pissed off for being so bold? For being as successfully dangerous as our mother?” Lydia hissed and moved to drag her further down the alley where a shamefully luxurious Lamborghini idled there waiting for them. “All of them,” she answered for her, ignoring Erica’s sullen silence before adding, “and I respect that.” 

Erica didn't have a chance to respond before she’s shoved into the backseat and against the tallest drink of water she’s seen from humanity in a long time. The aesthetics of his amber eyes and undoubtedly nimble hands were nothing compared to the thundering vibrancy of his spirit. It was a pale imitation of Boyd’s holy fire and completely unheard of in a human. Logic dictated that the human body is not made to contain such glory, but there it was and it called to her. 

“This is Stiles, our secret weapon. He’s going to help us take down that self righteous prick of a general and get our property back. Gerard hasn’t realized it yet but he’s tainted and there isn’t a soul on this plane that I can’t find that’s been tainted,” Lydia informed her. When Erica didn’t respond to that right away she added, “that doesn’t mean he’s off limits.”

Stiles eyes gleamed and his mouth quirked with sinister humor. “Nice to meet you. I have my own agenda here but if you need a hit I don’t mind taking one for the team.”

“Wha--” and then it hit her, “ _Nephilim_ ,” she breathed. Then she was on him, the hunger an ache that made it impossible to do more than straddle his lap and kiss him at first. Energy sparked between them like the world’s tiniest electric storm as her body healed itself and the world became vibrant and lush again to her senses.

Her prey barely had breath to gasp and even less to groan, shocked, when she finally shoved open his pants and hiked her skirt up to settle down for a real meal. Distantly she noted that he looked good with his mouth open like that, stained by the apple red of her lipstick. She shivered, and basked in his wintergreen flavor as she fitfully kneaded at his shoulders and waited for her pheromones to overwhelm him.

“This is going to be so fast, I’m so sorry,” he eventually rushed out in a garbled mess, hands trembling where they clung to her hips.

“Good,” she hissed, pleased, and fed.

* * *

13.  
 **Warnings:** N/A  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/Derek  
Stiles wakes to a warm mouth press soft, wet kisses along his neck. He feels a naked body pressed up against his own, a cock pressed against his ass and a hand on his hip. He moans, shifting back to press closer.

His eyes blink open.

When he fell asleep, the curtains on the window were open and the evening sun was shining through, warming his skin. It’s long since set now, he knows, and though he can’t see, he also knows that the curtains are closed. His husband leaves nothing to chance; their room is always pitch black when Derek is there with him.

“I missed you,” Derek whispers, moving up to rub his nose behind Stiles’ ear.

The breath on his neck makes him shudder. He reaches back, feeling along Derek’s body until his fingers plunge into soft, thick hair and then tightens his grip, pulling forward until their lips meet, hungry and desperate.

Derek pushes him onto his back, crawling over him until his body is cradled between Stiles’ thighs, their cocks rubbing together lazily as they kiss. Stiles sighs into his mouth, trailing hands over Derek’s arms and back and ass. He can never get enough of this; of Derek’s skin underneath his fingertips and their bodies pressed so tightly together, the two of them desperate to be close.

When he was a boy, Stiles feared the night for darkness could hide monsters and monsters were dangerous. He remembers, vividly, shielding himself with his covers and waiting for the sun to peek in through his windows, the rays poking through his shield to shine light on his pajamas. Back then, the sun was a protector, a friend.

Now that he’s grown, the night holds a different meaning for him. The night brings his husband back to him. It brings pleasure and closeness and contentment, the likes of which he can never find in the light of day now. Not when he knows what he’s missing; _who_ he’s missing.

Some call Stiles a fool. On his darker days, he even agrees with them. What kind of marriage is one where they can only be together in the cover of darkness? Where he doesn’t even know his husband’s face?

Even when he’s a fool, though, he is always a fool in love. Stiles does not know his husband’s face but he knows the shape of his body, the feel of his hands and skin. He knows the sound of Derek’s quiet laughter, the pleased rumble in his chest, his moans in the heat of passion. He knows the pace of Derek’s breath, can tell the difference between excitement and sleep and consciousness. He knows Derek’s dry humor, his ire, his insecurities.

Stiles knows everything about his husband, everything a spouse should, except for his face and the reason he hides it. He must have a reason, though, and Stiles trusts Derek enough to let him have this.

There is nothing lost between them in darkness. If anything, the impairment of sight makes every other sense heightened. Every shared breath more intimate, every touch electrified, every word a secret only the two of them share.

Derek pulls away slowly, pressing kisses all along his cheeks and jaw. Every so often, he bites and then laughs softly into the abused skin when Stiles’ hips buck beneath him.

Stiles squirms, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder. “How was your day?” He mumbles, genuinely interested in the answer even though he’s quickly getting distracted.

“Quiet,” Derek says as he slides down Stiles’ body. “I read a book.”

“ _Oh_.” Stiles gasps, arching when he feels a tongue on his cock. “W-what book?”

Derek laughs quietly. “I’ll tell you later,” he promises and then takes Stiles into his mouth.

Morning will come too soon as it always does and Derek will melt away with the last vestiges of darkness, leaving Stiles alone in their bed. The day will start and Stiles will rise for breakfast before exploring the home that Derek has given him, the castle that still holds so many secrets from him. He will laugh and joke and pretend that he isn’t waiting for darkness to fall again, for his husband to come back to him.

For now, Stiles enjoys the night while he has it; Derek never lets him get distracted for long, anyways.

* * *

14.  
 **Warnings:** Canon-Typical Violence, Age Gap, Homicidal Ideation  
 **Pairing:** Peter Hale/Lydia Martin

It used to be enough on its own -- the blood sheeting through his fingers, sliding heavy off his wrists and up his arms. The heat of it soaking into his skin and the cuffs of his shirt, rolled up to his elbows and still not clear of the carnage. There’s so much warmth in a human body, so much life just waiting for him to drag it out. And the look in their eyes when he does…

Shock and surprise and fear and _release_. Like they’ve just been waiting for him to do it, too.

It’s its own reward, the killing, but it isn’t what fulfills him anymore. It’s not enough on its own. Not now that he knows it can be so much more devastating, so much more destructive. Not when his brutality of flesh pales in comparison with the way she shatters when he crawls in her window, red in his eyes and on his shoes and her perfect, trembling fear staring back at him. 

It used to be the stillness that got him hard, the way a body goes limp in the moment of death. The sudden vacancy, the _space_ where a soul used to be until he took it. The power and control of ending another person entirely.

But now it’s the moment their eyes meet across her bedroom and he gets to watch her fall apart all over again. All her carefully reassembled calm, the facade she puts on for the world, crumbling as if she really were made of porcelain. As if she really were some fragile thing when Peter knows more than anyone else just how strong Lydia Martin really is.

He pauses there, in the window frame. He always does, as if by not moving he can suspend them there in the moment. And it seems to work. A little. A very little. As if the world holds its breath each time he does, torn between what was and what is. What he’s done and what he’s going to do.

What she’s going to say.

How it’s going to feel when her sex clamps down on him as she comes.

Lydia swallows but refuses to blink, lifts her chin in defiance when she asks, “Who was it this time?”

“Does it matter?” he answers, climbing inside and shedding his coat. It feels natural to keep going, remove his shoes, shirt, pants, until he’s as bared to her as her soul is to him. Nowhere near as beautiful, of course, but that’s half of what gets him off. The idea of fucking someone as pure as her. So good. So moral. 

He loves watching her grapple with herself as she comes undone under him, over him. In his mouth and on his cock and the way she cries sometimes after.

Though her voice quakes, Peter can hear the steel in it when she says, “Yes.”

His breath catches in his chest looking down into those eyes. Those big, wet eyes that should look frightened (they do), should look petrified of the monster thumbing at her lip (they don’t), but what Peter sees when he looks into them is resolve.

It’s not a certainty. Not yet, but it is a promise of sorts. What might be one day. What she could become. He isn’t waxing poetic when he calls it steel in her voice. That’s what he hears, what she’s promised him.

He looks at Lydia Martin and sees his death shining back at him, pure as driven snow. She might love him one day, too, but it won’t stop her -- would never stop her from doing what she thinks is right. 

He slides his hand down to cup her jaw, threads his other into her hair and she makes this noise -- half sigh, half whimper -- and suddenly Peter’s thinking of nothing so much as the noise she’ll make when she wraps her hand around his heart and he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, he’s going to find out.

Some day. Maybe some day sooner than he thinks.

He’s not sure what he’s asking for when he says, “Please.”

* * *

15.  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

He took care of his pack first, made sure everyone had a place to go. Boyd and Erica were with Boyd's family in LA. Scott was at home, doted on by Kira and his mom. Isaac had Allison, Chris. Everyone was protected, watched over, accounted for.

Everyone except him. 

Derek paces the floor, his windows darkening with evening gloom. He checks his hands impulsively, over and over. Flashing his claws. 

When the moon rises, he breaks out in shivers, has to lie down. 

He can sense the moment it happens, between one heartbeat and the next. He lets out a ragged breath. 

Everything's _dulled_.

He bears it for a long while alone, until there are footsteps in his hallway. 

He can't smell anything, can't see well enough to protect himself. Can only burrow into his bedding, whimpering high and pathetic.

"H-hey, Derek. God, shhhh, it's me--" 

_Stiles_. Derek lets out a whine, fights the blankets off.

Hands catch his face and Derek can't see, he can't _see in the dark_ , but that's quickly remedied when his bedside lamp switches on.

Derek sits there in that glaring light for a long time, squinting. 

"Dude, why are you hiding in the dark?" Stiles asks, and his face is just... _Stiles_. Derek faceplants on his knee in relief.

"Forgot the lamp was there. Never use it," Derek mutters, then makes a low, chest-deep sound when Stiles pets at his hair. 

"Scott told me, the eclipse? Your werewolf senses get all--?"

"--weak," Derek says, and then burrows his nose in the hinge of Stiles' knee, scenting deeply and barely pulling anything but the faint saltiness of sweat. 

"Jesus," Stiles sighs, petting his nape.

"Yeah," Derek agrees. 

They're quiet and then Derek rolls over, still squinting in the light, his eyes not adjusted yet. He frowns up at Stiles. "You came from school?"

Stiles blushes and it _hurts_ Derek that he can't scent that heat in his cheeks, or hear that rush of blood. 

"Scott said you'd need someone, so..." 

They've been dancing around this _want_ for the last few months, and it's unbearable not being able to breathe in the sweet, familiar pull of Stiles' desire.

Stiles is _looking_ at him with all this frustration and it makes Derek whine out a breath again, confused. " _Stiles_ , I can't smell you. Is this, do you--?" Derek says and Stiles swallows noticeably, hushes him.

"It's, _shit_. Just...I'm gonna lie down with you," Stiles says, "Ok?" He's toeing off sneakers before Derek can answer, unbuttoning his top flannel and dropping it on the floor. 

He gets under the blankets with Derek in just his skin-warm tee-shirt and sweatpants, his mouth parted for his breath. 

"Derek, you gotta tell me. Tell me if I'm wrong--" Stiles begs, leaning in slowly, mouth searching--

Derek makes a wounded sound of surprise into the kiss because his mouth is still _so sensitive_. The inner, silken drag of lips, the touch of Stiles' hot tongue, it's _electric_. Derek ends up fisting Stiles' hair with two hands, lifting up, chasing the feeling. 

When they finally break apart, they're both gasping. "Jesus, you're still so _strong_ \--" Stiles groans.

"My mouth feels good--" Derek tries, voice broken. He nuzzles into Stiles' neck, eats up all that peppery-warm skin helplessly. 

He closes his eyes and samples Stiles' body: his freckly throat, that little, tasty thatch of hair on his chest, those brown, pricked nipples, the sharp edge of his hip, the dark line of hair below his bellybutton where Derek can finally, _finally_ pull some scent. He ends up pressed there for a long time, inhaling. 

A trembly hand touches at his head. " _God, p-please_ ," Stiles breathes. 

Derek peels Stiles' sweats and underwear down over his tender stomach, mouth following. Eager, he catches the hot surge of that skinny cock between his lips.

Derek croons around the mouthful as taste explodes on his tongue. He twists into it, chasing the bitterness, head bobbing greedily.

Stiles digs fingers into the meat of his shoulder, into the back of his neck. 

"Ohfuck, oh _fuck_ \--" Stiles gasps, urgent.

When it comes, the flavor of Stiles' orgasm is so delicious, Derek groans and lets it fill the cup of his tongue, drenching his taste buds.

* * *

16.  
 **Warnings: Past Rape/Non Con, Underage (17), Angst, There’s a happy ending I swear**  
 **Pairing: Stiles/Derek, Void!Stiles/Deputy Parrish, Void!Stiles/Kira, Void!Stiles/Peter**

He found it while ridding his room of all trace of the Nogitsune. It was a DVD with _Just In Case_ written on it. 

Stiles only remembers some of the things that happened while he was possessed, mainly what _it_ wanted him to see. The recollection of twisting that blade in Scott still made him sick. 

Shaking off the memory, he walked over to his laptop and popped the DVD in. They were video files, three of them, time stamped over the period of a month. Last month.  
________

“Hey Dad, I just wanted to show you what I’ve been so secretive about lately. Hope you enjoy.” Stiles—no, the Nogitsune—winked and smiled at the camera. 

The scene shifts to his bed and Stiles is on his hands and knees moaning while Deputy Parrish eats him out??? 

He paused the video and tried to process what he’s seeing. He moves the cursor to a different point in the video and when he presses play he sees himself, straddling his father’s newest deputy and riding him.

Stiles closes the video and tries not to let the tears threatening to escape, fall. 

That was his first time. 

That fucking demon _stole_ his virginity.  
________

For a long while after that, Stiles stares at the remaining two videos. Debating if he should watch them or just delete them all. 

In the end, he decides to watch them. Better to know what the fox did than be caught off guard in the future. 

He clicked on the second video and another message from the fox comes on.

“Hey Scottie, this is for you.” The demon winked and the screen went black and then a strange room came into view. He hears a girl giggling and suddenly there he was, making out with Kira on her bed. 

They were both moaning into the kiss and grabbing each other desperately. The fox put his hands under Kira’s skirt and the Kitsune let out a sharp cry. 

Stiles closed the video, rubbed his face and pulled his hair as hard as he could with out actually hurting himself.

He couldn’t imagine how much that video would hurt his best friend and that fucking spirit did it with the intention of _showing it_ to Scott.

Stiles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He clicked on the next video before he talked himself out of it.

Like the rest, it begins with a message. “Hey Derek, I just wanted to tell you that you took too long.” 

The fox was on his knees, _oh God_ , blowing _Peter_. The older wolf had his hands in Stiles’ hair and kept thrusting into his mouth while growling out Stiles’ name. 

Stiles fast-forwarded the video to see what else happens without actually watching the rest. He sees that at some point Peter picked him up and started to fuck him up against the wall and he closed the video, took out the DVD and snapped it in half.  
________

The knock on the window later that night brought Stiles back from wherever his mind had wandered, he nodded and Derek came into his room.

“Are you ok?” Derek asked.

“Why do you ask?” His voice sounded hoarse. 

“Because you smell like grief. What happened?” 

Stiles looks over at the broken CD on his desk and shakes his head.

After a few moments Stiles asked, “We have a thing, right?” The wolf looked confused at the question. “I mean, you and I—we—you like me, right?” 

Before Derek could answer Stiles walked up to him until their chests touched and refused to let the Nogitsune take this away from him. He _refused_ to give that demon any power over him.

He took Derek’s hand in his and leaned in slowly, giving Derek time to pull away or to stop him, and kissed him. It was short and chaste, but a perfect first kiss. 

He took a step back to see Derek’s reaction but the wolf grabbed Stiles by the waist and kissed him again, this time it was deep and Derek’s lips were so soft and it felt _so good_. They broke apart to get some air and Derek brought their foreheads together.

“Yeah, Stiles, I like you.” He gave Stiles one of his rare smiles and Stiles’ stomach gave a flip at that confession. 

“Derek, I want _you_ to be my first everything.”

* * *

17.  
 **Warnings:** blood kink, violent sex, angst  
 **Pairing:** Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski

Sometimes, Stiles scratches himself. Like he’s got bug bites or chicken pox or spiders crawling under his skin. He can feel them, count them, claws in his veins, water in his nerves, snakes slithering through his skeleton. He pulls at his skin, stretches at his muscles, contorts his bones until he can’t feel them anymore: all he can feel is the hurt there, thawing him, calming him, making him human again. He remembers being a fox like a bad taste in his mouth, blood and ash, blood and ash.

Sometimes, Stiles asks Scott to scratch him, on the nights that Stiles can’t reach deep enough. Can’t get far enough into himself, arms angry and red and stinging, crying, his whole body wondering when this will end while his mind goes on hurting. Tracks left either in his head or his flesh, angry and red.

And sometimes, Scott will say yes. Sometimes, he’ll hold Stiles with his claws out. He’ll answer that horrible, wretched voice that wells in Stiles’ throat when his brain just won’t stop squirming in his head. They’ll make a mess of Stiles’ body, opening him up in all the places that drive him the maddest, drain the crazy out of him.

Almost always, they do this while Scott is fucking him. Like it’s better that way. The first time Stiles asked him, there was hesitance, disgust. Storms as the alpha prowled for blood, but Scott said no. Not really remembering how hard it actually is to say no to Stiles.

He doesn’t argue anymore. He fights himself, but he can’t fight Stiles. Instead, he puts long lines into Stiles’ arms and legs, along his back, blood swelling to the surface, him finally exhaling when he feels it on his skin. _Thank you_ in the air between them, face going slack, eyes sliding shut, looking like Scott’s best friend again. That’s when Scott feels the closest to him. Feels the least animal between them. A moment that he cherishes before the smell of blood becomes thick enough and he can’t hold back his shift. The calm before the levee breaks.

Sometimes, Stiles looks surprised to see the wolf upon him. Never realizing the way he looks, bathed like the kill, baring his throat. Never realizing the way he feels or the way he sounds, whines tight in his throat, like the bitch Scott makes of him. Never holding back enough to be aware of how pitiful a picture, poor thing, le pouvre. Never really aware of himself anymore.

Aware of nothing but the blood.

Just like he makes Scott. So fucking _aware_.

“Fuck, yes, please,” he moans this time, legs tight and inflexible but wrapped as close as he can get them around Scott’s waist. He’s got old scratches _everywhere_ , Scott can feel them, even before he’s opening them up again, emptying them out. Flesh defiant, closing too soon, healing inhuman. Hurting the worst. “ _Burns_ , Scott, _please_ ,” Stiles continues, voice weathered to a whimper, cajoling the alpha, seductive as a dying animal.

Scott will fuck deeper into him, bite at his shoulders, take his erection in his fist, try to drown out the pleas, wash out the itch. But by the end of the night he’ll give in, and they’ll wake wondering where the deepest damage was done, and on whom. At least when they wake, Stiles will let Scott touch him gently.

* * *

18.  
 **Warnings:** underage  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

It’s so hard to wait until everyone in the house falls asleep before climbing out of his bedroom window. Derek’s pretty sure Laura knows anyway, but she hasn’t said anything. Besides, he only gets one night a month. Well, one night per lunar cycle, which is ironic in its own way. He can only see Stiles – or touch Stiles, or taste Stiles – under the new moon, with nothing but the starlight and his own heightened senses to guide him through the trees.

It’s never the same place twice, but Derek never has any trouble finding him. As soon as he enters the hushed cool of the woods, he just _knows_ , drops down to all fours in a run to get there faster. It’s all he can do not to howl.

It’s not a scent or a sound that tells him when to stop, but something about the way the shadows fall, coalescing until they become solid, like curtains Stiles can hide behind. And even though he’s expecting it, Derek still gasps when the shadows peel back and Stiles seems to appear out of nowhere, skin glowing like the moonlight that strengthens Derek’s powers. “Where do you even come from?” Derek asks breathlessly, not for the first time.

Stiles just looks up at the stars and smiles. “I’m not even entirely sure where I am now.”

Derek should question it, he should… But they already have so little time together, and Derek probably couldn’t puzzle out the how and the why of it if he had a hundred lifetimes. Not when Stiles’ luminous skin is warm and soft to the touch, when his eyes are ageless but the rest of him looks no older than Derek. It’s almost a year that they’ve been meeting in the forest, but all told it’s only been 12 nights.

Whatever Stiles is, his body looks and feels and _smells_ just right, his lips moving so sweetly against Derek’s. Things get heated pretty quickly – Derek nearly tears his boxers getting them off, but Stiles is suddenly naked under Derek’s hands like he’s never been anything else. Stiles is so responsive to Derek’s fumbling touches, gasping when Derek pulls them roughly together and lands with his back against a tree.

When Stiles reaches between Derek’s legs, his fingers are already wet. It never feels this good when Derek does this to himself; Stiles easily finds an angle that Derek can’t quite get right with fingers or toys. And he doesn’t have to hold back on a moan when Stiles lifts him easily. Derek wonders whether he’ll ever have this again, ever be with someone who’s strong enough to hold him up and slide into him. It hurts a little – it always does, at first – but Stiles soothes him with a whisper like the night air blowing lazily through the trees.

Derek clings to Stiles, gets lost in those huge, dark eyes while he waits for his body to relax. He has no reason to feel as safe as he does out here, but Stiles’ impish grin always reassures him, makes him feel like there’s nothing else in the world but this.

It always starts out slower than he wants, and even though he knows it won’t do any good, he growls and tugs at Stiles’ hair. Stiles just laughs and kisses him, rocking hard and deep until Derek is gasping and clawing at Stiles’ shoulders.

The angle and the friction between their bodies is enough to make Derek come, but as amazing as that feels, the real climax is Stiles’ orgasm. Derek would swear Stiles’ skin glows even brighter as he gets close, and when he finally cries out and buries his face against Derek’s neck, the very air around them seems to shimmer.

No matter how they start, they always end up wrapped around each other on a soft cushion of leaves. They talk some – or rather, Derek talks and Stiles mostly listens. There are so many things he just can’t tell anyone else, and he came so close to destroying everything with Kate. If Stiles hadn’t warned him… Derek doesn’t even want to think about it.

So he doesn’t. He just lies quietly and strokes Stiles’ cheek with a single finger, tracing the strange, dark constellation of moles that stand out so starkly against the unearthly glow of Stiles’ skin. “Sometimes I have the hardest time believing you’re real,” Derek whispers.

Stiles grins. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

* * *

19.  
 **Warnings:** None  
 **Pairing:** Allison/Scott

Allison likes kissing Scott's smiles; she likes leaning over tables and kissing his lips when they are taut in one of his sincere, bright, open smiles. She likes the feeling of her lips on his as he realizes that she's kissing him, as his smile transforms into something else, as his lips start moving with hers.

When they have sex for the first time Scott blushes against her pale shoulders and lets out these embarrassed tiny smiles and she nuzzles into the disarrayed nest of hair at the top of his hair, kisses him there and guides him inside her with a sure hand, talks him through getting inside her, breathy and gasping, goosebumps running through her as she puts her legs around his hips and her hands on his ass and tries to bring him _closer_ , flush against her until he's making choked sounds against his throat and peppering kisses there, sloppy, muttering _you're so beautiful_ , and _I love you so much_ , and _Allison, you're so perfect_.

Allison bites her lips, doesn't reply, just lets out a shaky moan when he moves his mouth over one of her nipples, starts sucking eagerly between broken words of praise.

She digs her nails on his shoulders, rakes them all over his back, presses her fingers dip enough to leave bruises for days, feels strangely determined to _mark him up_ as she kisses his shoulder and sucks the skin between her lips, bites there, almost _mean_ when Scott lets out this sound that's halfway between blissed out and pained.

She feels grounded like she hasn't felt in ages, she feels _here_ and present with the weight of Scott's body on top of her, blanketing her, with him snug inside her, whispering sweetness onto her ears, letting the words bathe her.

She feels lightheaded as he grabs her by her waist, smiles up at her with this innocence that never fails to make Allison's knees weak, make her heart start beating harder, faster, trying to break out of her; it never feels to make her blank out a little, make her brain slow down and her body start doing things on its own. 

She smiles back, wraps arms around him, lets herself be hard and unyielding, lets herself try to eat up Scott's _niceness_ up, so she can have it inside her all the time, so she can have it with her even after they've both come, after they've put their clothes back on, after they've gone to bed and woken up to another day and gone on with life.

Scott kisses her face, her cheeks, her eyes when he thrusts _up_ and she lets them flutter closed, lips parting to let out an _oh_ in a voice that's quivering so much that Allison can barely recognize it as her own.

Then he's flipping their positions, putting her on his lap and lying on his back, looking up at her all trusting, all vulnerable without caring, just giving everything up to Allison, and he looks at her with eyes that ask _is this okay_ , and she can only put her palms down on his abs and _move_.

She arranges her sweaty legs and _moves_ , moves until Scott's making pleading noises, shaking under her, and her hands keep scratching at him, putting little red lines on his skin, all dark possessiveness that she's never let herself feel inside her until he lets out a sobbing, wrecked _Allison_ and she's coming, shaking on top of him and grabbing at his shoulders as she leans down and sucks a messy bruise on his throat, all _intent_ and she feels Scott fall apart, make a broken noise as he comes too.

She smiles against his sweaty skin.

(Scott's skin is perfectly unmarked once they're done, and Allison's gut churns as she puts her bra back on, but she tries to push it down, lock that feeling deep inside and she leans over to kiss Scott, sweet and deep.)

* * *

20.  
 **Warnings:** Underage  
 **Pairing:** Chris Argent/Peter Hale (I've played fast and loose with canon... excessively so.)

Chris Argent learns that he’s part of a hunter family at the age of twelve, starts training at fifteen, and learns about the Hale family at age seventeen.

However, it isn’t until his first day of senior year that he meets Peter Hale, all charm and confidence, strutting around like he owns the place.

Chris hates him instantly.

***

Peter slides into the seat beside Chris during Chemistry.

“I’m sure I would’ve remembered a face like yours. You must be new,” he drawls.

Chris scowls. “This seat’s already taken.”

“Oh?” Peter says, grin widening like the Cheshire cat. “I don’t see anyone else here.”

“They’re running late.”

“Mmm, I’ll bet. Guess I’ll be on my way then.”

Peter grabs his books and moves to a spot somewhere behind Chris, but he still feels Peter’s gaze all throughout class.

***

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Chris tries not to groan. “It’s the school cafeteria.”

Peter sits down across from him. “You’re never here. Avoiding someone?”

“No.”

Peter smirks, starts eating his lunch like they’re friends.

***

“Your form’s all wrong.”

Chris turns around, basketball in hand, wiping the sweat from his brow. Peter. Of course.

“Oh? You’re the expert?”

Peter grins, steps onto the basketball court. “Obviously. I’m not team captain _just_ for my good looks.”

Chris glares, ignores the way his traitorous heart skips a beat, and sets about teaching him a lesson.

***

This is dangerous.

He’s from a hunter family, Peter’s a werewolf. They exist on opposing sides of the same war. Nothing’s even happened, but it’s all Chris can think about sometimes. Peter wants him too, that much is obvious.

Which is why Chris only feels mildly guilty as he wraps a hand around himself at night, jerking off to the idea of Peter Hale sucking his dick, fucking him until he screams. In the dark, he doesn’t have to live up to the expectations of his family. In the dark he can have the things he dare not think about in the light of day.

***

“You need to leave me alone.”

He’s got Peter cornered at his locker at the end of the day.

“Do I?”

Chris tries not to growl at the insouciant expression on Peter’s face. “Yes.”

“Funny, I could say the same about you.” Peter smiles, showing his teeth. “You wanna know what I think?”

“No.”

Peter ignores him, stepping closer. “I think. That you want the opposite. I think--” he reaches out, places a hand across Chris’ now racing heart. “--that you want exactly what I do. But you’re scared.” Peter allows his nails to elongate, trails them deliberately down Chris’ chest.

Chris’ whole body shudders, and he closes his eyes against the sudden wave of arousal.

“I’m only the big bad wolf if you want me to be,” Peter says, pulling away.

***

It’s a stupid move. Chris knows that well before he even does it, which probably speaks to how gone he is on Peter. He just wants to talk. It’s been a week since the locker incident, and Chris is slowly losing his mind over it.

Peter has a basketball game that night, so Chris goes, knowing full well that his presence won’t go unnoticed. Despite that, Peter doesn’t come out of the locker room after the game. Chris waits, watching as each player leaves, with no sign of him.

Finally, he just enters. In the distance he hears a shower running and follows the sound straight to Peter. Who happens to be standing under the showerhead, hand shamelessly wrapped around his dick, clearly waiting.

Chris knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it.

“I--I came to talk.”

Peter smirks, blatantly strokes his dick. “I can think of better uses for your mouth right now.”

Chris groans, knows he’s half-hard already. “Fuck.”

“Later, darling. Don’t think either of us would last that long right now.”

And then Peter is on him, pulling at his clothes and kissing him like he’s _desperate_ for it. Chris reaches for Peter, hands scrambling to touch every inch of him like he’s been dreaming of for months. Somehow his clothes end up on the floor and Chris finds himself pressed up against the shower wall, legs wrapped around Peter’s waist as Peter strokes them both. Chris shamelessly fucks into Peter’s hand, moaning into his mouth. It doesn’t take much before Chris comes with a groan, Peter tumbling over the edge almost immediately after.

There will be consequences for this later, Chris knows, but for now it’s enough.

* * *

21.  
 **Warnings:** anonymous sex, ambiguous ending  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/Unknown Male

Stiles prepares before he goes to Jungle, fucking himself open with his biggest dildo and plenty of lube. He doesn’t get off; that’s not the point of the pre-show after all. He just wants to make sure he’s ready for the grand finale. He can have an orgasm any day; tonight is about finding _release_.

He strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in the door, tossing it somewhere he might find it later. His skin is already carefully dotted with glitter and small rhinestones glued to his skin that reflect the light from the mirror ball shining over the dance floor. In the darkness of the club, the only light will shimmer from that source, reflecting off of anything shiny. Stiles intends to shine and hide at the same time; it’s perfect.

He slips into a small space on the dance floor, neatly slotted between two men already dancing. They let him in, hands gliding down his sides to his hips, holding him in place while they grind. Stiles can feel how fucking _wet_ he is inside of his jeans, sticky and sloppy, and he pushes back against the hard dick behind him. Teeth nip at his shoulder, and he groans.

He wants to make the night last, but he’s not sure he _can_.

He just wants to let it all go, free his mind.

It’s so hard to _let go_ sometimes.

He leans in, kissing the man in front of him, not caring who it is. Scruff burns his chin and he groans, tilting his head back, letting him nip at his throat. He aches, hard in his jeans, trapped and uncomfortable as hips push against him.

Not yet, not yet.

Stiles twists to one side, moving from one man to another, grinding, dancing, enjoying the sensation without giving himself up. Hands stroke over his body, fingertips skimming sensitive nipples, palms pressing hard against his erection. He rides the fine edge of almost-orgasm until his skin burns with the need to lose control.

There are pockets of pure darkness around the edges of the club, places where men stand, cocks out, waiting for a willing mouth or hand. Stiles moves with purpose, slipping into shadows and closing his eyes against what little sparkling light filters in. He doesn’t want to see, he doesn’t want to be seen—he just wants to feel.

Heat from a body draws him in and Stiles goes willingly, turning his back to grind his bottom against this stranger, feeling the hardness push against his jeans. “Fuck me,” Stiles whispers. He holds out a condom, relaxing as he hears the foil packet tear. 

He takes the time to shimmy his jeans down, exposing his bare ass, knowing that keeping his jeans around his thighs traps his legs, makes him a tighter fit. He wants to _feel_ this, pulled back against the cock that nudges at him, pushes inside. He bends forward, anonymous hands gripping his hips to keep him from falling before he’s turned to face the wall and lean against it, head turned and pillowed on his bent arm, eyes still closed.

Hips snap, pushing the thick cock into him over and over and it feels so damned good, blotting out everything else. Stiles fists his own cock, tugging at it hard. “Oh _fuck_ , that’s good,” he mutters. “Just keep doing that, fill me up you fucker. Fuck me until I can’t feel anything anymore. Your cock is so fucking big, I’m so fucking tight, just don’t stop, fuck me into the wall dude.”

And he _does_. The stranger _does_ , pushing harder and faster until Stiles rocks into the wall, knowing there’s going to be a bruise on his chin and another shaped like fingers on his shoulder where he’s held tight. Teeth nip at his shoulder, sucking a mark into being and Stiles comes at the feeling, spurting against the wall while teeth hold him in place.

“Fuck, _Stiles_.”

Stiles goes absolutely still, heart stuttering. It’s not exactly a _common_ name. Does this dude know him? Is he fantasizing about him?

The guy pulls out and by the time Stiles manages to turn, one hand out, eyes blinking open into the darkness… there is nothing for his questing hand to touch.

No one is there.

He tucks himself away, ass aching and cock still wet. It was good. Fucking awesome, really.

He got exactly what he came for.

It’s just that now he wishes he got _more_.

* * *

22.  
 **Warnings:** None  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/Derek

College was Laura's idea. The family had been well off enough that work wasn't too much of a pressing issue, but they couldn't laze around all day, so while Laura was working, Derek was in his photography course.

His first project required photos of a person, or people. He'd never really taken any proper shots of people, so this was new territory for him. People were full of planes and dips that he'd not really paid attention to before. He really wanted to explore it further, he could see it in his mind; black and white, an abdomen, plains of white and shadow. The long stretch of an arm, the bend of an elbow. 

Derek had placed an ad for someone to pose for him, nude, or nearly nude, offering to pay. He got a phone call a couple of days later. 

“Hello?”

“Hi – Derek?”

“Yes, who's this?” Derek asked, suspicious. 

“My names Stiles – I'm ringing about your ad?”

“Oh, right. Of course,” Derek said, relaxing marginally. “So, what do you need to know?”

“Nudes, seriously?” 

“Yeah, I want to do a study of light,” Derek said, slightly defensively. 

“And you're ok with me being a dude? This isn't a ruse to get girls?” 

Derek sighed.

“Or guys!” Stiles said. Derek considered hanging up.

“Ok ok, sorry, I just wasn't expecting the nudes thing to be serious.”

“Well, if you don't want to do it any more, that's fine.” 

“No, no, that's fine,” Stiles said, and Derek could hear the click of his throat as he swallowed. “I can still do it.”

***

Derek took one last look around their spare room, which was set up to be Derek's studio. It looked clean enough, and he had all the equipment set out.

His door knocked, and Derek pulled it open. 

“Derek?” 

“Stiles,” Derek said, stepping back to let Stiles in. Stiles was roughly the same height as him, wide shoulders. Derek noticed long fingers as they shook hands, already composing shots in his head. 

“The studio is through here. Do you want a drink?” 

“Nah, I'm good,” Stiles said, walking into the studio. He whistled softly. “Nice set up, very impressive.”

“Thanks,” Derek said, started to fiddle with his camera. 

“Straight down to business, huh? Sure,” Stiles said. “I'll strip then.” 

Stiles slid his clothes off efficiently, dropping them into a small pile on the floor.

“Do you want me fully nude or..?” Stiles asked, thumbing the waistband of his boxers. 

“You can keep them on,” Derek said. Stiles nodded and stood awkwardly. 

“Can you sit?” Derek asked, motioning to the sofa he'd placed next to the window, blinds stripping the light.

“This is the most comfortable sofa ever,” Stiles said, leaning his head back. Derek managed to snap a quick shot of Stiles' neck. Stiles jumped. “No fair! Some warning please.” 

“Posed shots aren't as good.” 

Stiles looked at him.

“I can get you as natural as possible,” Derek said. “But fine, warning.”

“Thanks.” 

Derek moved around Stiles, giving instructions. Stiles was quite good about doing as he was told, occasionally giving a soft 'oh' when he realised what Derek was after. Derek had photos of the long line of Stile's back, the curve of a bicep, the way his moles stood out starkly on his skin. Light on dark.

***

They shot for an hour, after which Derek stood up, stretching. 

“This is good, thanks.” 

“Nice working with you,” Stiles said. He hesitated. “You know, we could do nudes, if you wanted.”

Derek swallowed hard. “Sure.” 

Stiles stood up, shucking his boxers. His dick was hard, curving up against towards his stomach. 

Derek stepped around him, taking a snap of the shadow it cast on Stiles stomach. 

“Wrap your hand around it?” 

Stiles drew in a shuddering breath as he did so. Derek let out a breath, and took another photo. He could smell Stiles' arousal, and it wasn't long before his dick was straining against his jeans. 

Derek watched Stiles notice and stroke his dick in response.

“Keep going,” Derek said, hoarsely. Stiles whimpered and twisted his wrist. Derek put his camera down, and moved closer, dropping to his knees and taking the head of Stiles' dick into his mouth. Stiles swore and thrust towards Derek. 

“I'm gonna-” Stiles said. Derek moaned as he swallowed Stiles' come, hot and bitter on his tongue. Stiles collapsed boneless against the sofa. 

Derek took more photos, of Stiles' soft dick, the sweat beaded on his neck. 

“Just for me,” Derek murmured.

* * *

23.  
 **Warnings:**  
 **Pairing:** Allison/Isaac

He finds her in the aftermath of the quickening. The street is a wreck: car alarms going off, smoke wafting around her, and light flickering on and off. Allison needs to go, but her legs can't carry her yet, and her hands are still locked tight about her sword. 

Someone's going to find her here, she knows that, but she can't make herself move. 

"Allison?" 

She's too tired to even think about trying to run. She needs to get out of here before Isaac sees her face, he hasn't yet, while she has a chance. She needs to run...she doesn't move. 

Allison doesn't move and she can hear Isabelle's warnings in her head, but she killed someone tonight. She faced down a man hundreds of years older than her and she _survived_. She gave up everything and she deserves a second chance. 

She lifts her head. Back-lit by sputtering streetlights, he's beautiful, and she just might love him. 

Isaac drops to his knees before her. Her sword clatters to the floor between them and she doesn't mean to kiss him, but she does and he's laughing, crying, into the kiss and murmuring her name between breaths.

"It's me," she's saying at the same time, "It's _me_." 

The sirens make them break apart and she's strong enough to grab her sword, Isaac taking hold of her other hand. "C'mon," he says, his grip desperate enough for them both.

Her head's still swimming with the quickening and the journey from the street to her rooms is a blur of traffic and Isaac. She was warned this might happen, the Quickening of an older, more powerful Immortal refusing to settle lightly, and she takes slow breaths, following her teacher's instructions. Isabelle is centuries old and not by accident. Allison's died once and she's in no hurry to do it again anytime soon. She's even less of a hurry to surrender control of her mind to a dead man. 

She turns on the light while Isaac locks the door. Her mind is her own but her body's restless, eager, and she was warned about this too. 

"How are you still alive?" Isaac is asking when she turns. "And that lightning, what was that?"

"It's a Quickening," she says, taking in the blood on her blade. She wipes it in the ruins of her dress. There's no saving it anyway. "Happens when you win."

"And when you lose?"

She looks over her shoulder. "You're the guy on the ground." Dropping her sword on the couch, she smiles. "I'm alive, I won, and I'll stay that way as long as I keep winning." She's not looking forward to being a teenager for the rest of her immortal life, but she'll take it over the alternative. "It's also why I haven't come home." She bites her lip. "I won't age. I'll be seventeen forever." 

He nods, moving closer, "But you're _alive_." 

She returns the nod, catching the glint of tears on his cheeks. "I'm alive."

In theory, she could blame the Quickening for throwing herself at him, but she knows it'd be a lie. She doesn't care either way. 

Isaac ruins what's left of her dress with his claws, she rips his t-shirt trying to get it over his head, and it feels so good to laugh with him. Her giggles trail off into a sigh of pleasure when he sucks a mark into her skin, lips working their way along the line of her neck.

They almost make it to the bed. Almost. She thinks they get points for that. Maybe. 

Allison fucks him on the floor. He tries to go harder, faster, but she grinds into him. Her name becomes a plea on his lips, but she kisses it away and keeps moving. "Stay," she breathes, when she comes, fingers curled tight around his. "Stay with me." 

His answer becomes a wordless cry as he follows her over. She lets him roll them, lets him kiss her as his hand works between her thighs, finding her clit and bringing off again. 

In the morning, he'll wake her with his head between her thighs. The morning after that, she'll wake him, grinding herself into his thigh and he'll fuck her until she comes twice. 

Eventually, she'll explain everything. Immortals. The Game. Why she can't go back. 

For now, she just wants him in her arms, in her bed, with the lights of Paris at war with the starlight outside her window.

For now, it's enough.

* * *

24.  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Pairing:** Sterek

"No, don't!" Stiles' muffled cry is followed by a blind reach to grab Derek's hand before it succeeds in turning the bedside lamp on. 

He winds up kissing Derek's nose, flailing wildly while toppling off the large bed and onto the hard floor. Stiles lies face down for a minute, contemplating his graceless nature while Derek turns the light on. 

So much for that plan.

Stiles rolls over on his back, grunting in irritation when he somehow winds up with a shoe under him. As he tries to grab the offending item, Derek watches from his perch and frowns. 

"What the hell was that?" The werewolf asks.

"What was what?" Stiles asks, because he's good at ignoring things even when they're dancing naked under his nose. 

There's an issue he's been avoiding since he and Derek started having sex and there's no way he's going to face it now. Not even when Derek seems to have noticed it and wants to talk about it.

Maybe he should get his name changed to Denial. Denial Stilinski. It has a nice ring to it. 

Derek rolls his eyes, doing his best impression of an angry male model reclining on a bed. What product he's selling, Stiles doesn't know. He just knows Derek looks good when he’s all rumpled hair, low slung jeans, pettable torso and artfully reclined. He could sell anything with that handsome face, even cat litter. 

"You know what." Derek lowers himself on his elbows, holding both hands out for Stiles to take. Stiles wriggles closer before accepting, hefting himself up to his knees before stealing a kiss. 

If you can't distract them through words, there's kissing and other sexy approaches. 

Derek's quiet hum makes Stiles internally crow with triumph. He’s got this! But his delight dies a swift death because Derek pulls away almost immediately. 

"Don't try to distract me."

"I'm not!" Stiles replies.

His defensive tone prompts a snort from Derek. "So you're _not_ trying to distract me from asking you why you won't let me see you naked?" Stiles opens his mouth to point out how they've had completely naked sex many times now but Derek beats him to the punch. "In proper light."

Ugh. Groan. Moan. Agony. 

The thing he's been trying to avoid for a week is now chewing on his nose and demand his attention like a clingy brownie fairy. Damn Derek for taking the "We need to work on our communication skills if we're going to make it as a couple!" rule so seriously. 

And damn himself for being so transparent. 

"Can I plead the fifth?" He hedges, squirming under Derek's unamused look. 

There's a nervous joke waiting on the tip of his tongue. That he ought to turn the light off before Derek's blinded by the light reflecting off his pale skin. And it's hard to keep it bay when Derek's eyes lower to his body.

Stiles stares at Derek's ear and tries very hard not to feel self-conscious. 

He fails spectacularly. 

How can he not though? Just look at his boyfriend! Derek's got a torso you could use as a washboard, his arms should be a national treasure, and then there’s his eyes. Just...

Heaving a long sigh, Stiles mumbles, "Are you done?" 

He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, Stiles begins to lean towards the light with the intent of turning it off. But Derek holds him in place. "No. I'm not. I want to look at you."

"Why? Do you wanna be blinded?" Stiles snarks.

Derek's fingers tighten before relaxing. "I want to look at my boyfriend, that's all."

A peculiar feeling of giddy happiness and nervousness begins to bubble up. It makes Stiles blush and squirm. "There's nothing to look at." He mumbles.

"There's plenty to look at." Derek retorts immediately, using his strength to drag Stiles back up in bed. His mouth latches onto Stiles' skin as soon as it's within range, peppering kisses down the human's neck and chest until Stiles is sighing with delight.

Stiles' hands grab at Derek, clenching when the kisses go lower and lower until the werewolf is nuzzling his crotch. 

\--  
"Should I go on?" Derek asks quietly.

Earnest green eyes watch him. Wait for him to consider the question, what it entails and decide. And turn dark with desire when Stiles nods hesitantly and lets Derek undress him.

Stiles can't fight the blush which takes over when Derek looks at his naked body and murmurs, "Perfect."

[end]

* * *


	2. Ground B (with warnings)

25\.   
**Warnings:** major character death, underage, reference to canon character death  
 **Pairing:** Chris/Stiles

Chris is halfway to Beacon colony when he's roused by the alarm. He'd struggled to stay awake but eventually the quiet hum of his spacecraft in the eerie silence of the universe had lulled him into a restless sleep.

The ship's fuel gauge flashes an ominous amber and Chris scrambles to run a diagnostic check from the control panel. The fuel level indicator is dropping steadily and more than half the ship's fuel is already gone.

"That's impossible," he mutters, pulling up the pre-launch checklist. Chris is a veteran pilot; he'd verified all of his calculations, twice, before setting out on his mission, making sure to account for the weight of the vaccine he's delivering to the virus-plagued outpost.

With the quadrant's fuel crisis at a critical level, he's left little room for error. Chris' ship is the lightest in the fleet and he's maximized efficiency by removing all non-essential equipment prior to launch.

The numbers don't add up. Unless…

Chris jumps to his feet and pulls his gun from his thigh holster, then races to the cargo hold.

+

"What the hell were you thinking?" He slams his hand against the wall. He can't get the severity of the situation through the kid's thick skull.

"This was the only ship heading to Beacon for weeks!"

"Of course it is. Beacon is in the middle of the fucking warzone!" Chris grabs Stiles by the collar and lodges the gun under his chin.

"Don’t you think I know that?" Stiles squirms furiously, but Chris' grip is too tight.

"Four hundred are dead because of this virus. The rest are counting on _me_ to save them." Chris grits his teeth. "Now, thanks to _you_ , I'll never get there."

He sees the moment the consequences of Stiles' foolish actions finally settle in. 

"My dad," Stiles chokes out. "Scott. I wanted to see them."

Chris rubs a hand over his scruff. "Don't give up yet."

+

"Well?" Stiles asks anxiously. "Did it work?"

They've stripped the ship of everything they can think of—flushed the food and waste systems, ripped ultralight panels from walls, shed every stitch of clothing—and piled it into the airlock before releasing it into space.

Chris checks the flight trajectory. "We're close, but it's not enough. We're still overweight."

"We can ditch the vaccine!" Stiles says frantically.

"Then what? We make it to Beacon and die alongside everyone else?"

Stiles' choked sobs break the heavy silence.

"This is my fault. God, my own fucking father!" Tears stream down his face. "I missed him so much, and now I've killed them all."

Chris pulls Stiles to him, tries to console him, holds him close. Stiles is so young, probably the same age Allison would have been if—.

"Shhh," he whispers into Stiles' hair. Stiles' eyes are wild when Chris leans back to wipe the tears from his cheeks. He slides their mouths together to calm Stiles' panicked breathing. 

Their kisses quickly become desperate and they fall to the floor. The cool metal is nothing compared to the searing heat of Stiles' naked body. 

Stiles ruts furiously into the dip of his hip and tears splash on Chris' neck and chest like warm summer rain. Chris barely gets a hand around them before Stiles' come hits his belly in hot spurts.

It's over too quickly.

It never should have happened at all.

+

He could make it. 

He could knock Stiles out with the butt of his gun, drag him into the airlock. Without Stiles' added weight, Chris could make it to Beacon.

_"Any stowaway discovered shall be jettisoned immediately."_

It's written in the very code Chris has pledged his life to protect.

 

+

Chris untangles himself from Stiles' limbs and walks to the auxiliary control panel.

"What are you doing?"

"Adjusting the auto-pilot settings to account for the weight reduction," Chris says. "Find CMO McCall when you get there. She'll know how to administer the vaccine."

"Wait, what?" Stiles asks, rubbing his eyes.

"You have your whole life ahead of you, Stiles." Chris steps into the airlock. "It's the only way."

Realization and horror dawn on Stiles' face. "No! Chris, no!" 

Stiles scrambles to his feet, runs to the door, screams and pounds his fists against it.

But it's too late. 

Chris is already gone.

The shock and guilt overwhelm Stiles and he sinks to the floor.

Stiles can still feel the phantom press of Chris' lips against his, Chris' hands on his body, as he hurtles through glittering blackness, alone.

* * *

26\.   
**Warnings:** none  
 **Pairing:** derek/stiles/jen **[non-evil canon-divergent au]**

"Can't you just imagine having this--" Jen tries to wrap her fingers around Derek's fist and fails. "--in you? Fingers fucking into you as he stretches you open, as _we_ stretch you open."

Stiles makes a noise, he wants to say it's dignified and manly, but fuck it, it's a needy whimper and he knows it is.

"Oh yeah, you want it…" She drops her hand down to the fly of Stiles's jeans and strokes over the hard line of his cock.

As he keens and tries to push up into her hand he wonders how exactly he ended up here, leaning back against Derek fucking Hale, with his English teacher palming his cock.

"I'm not your teacher any more, Stiles. You've graduated." Shit he speaks out loud too much.

When Jen and Derek started dating in his junior year Stiles was, well, Stiles was something that should probably be labelled as jealous if he had been ready to admit it. He was pretty impressed Derek was at least trying to move on, have a normal life, whatever. It's not his fault that his hot as fuck teacher, and his hot as fuck… friend started fucking. That's what hot people did together.

What he didn't get was how that descending into two hot as fuck people fucking him.

" _Jen_ , I don't--" Derek starts and Stiles is being crushed between them as Jen draws Derek into a kiss. Derek's stubble is brushing against his shoulder, and Jen's breasts are pressing into his chest.

This is really happening.

Stiles takes a breath and tries to figure out how to _participate_ in this, he doesn't-- so he's not a total virgin. He's just like, not very… experienced. He's slept with a couple of people, done some other things, but he's never really done anything where he wasn't, shit ok, it's going to sound bad, but nothing one hundred percent sober. He always had the alcohol to hide some of his awkwardness behind.

It's Derek's voice, dirty hot in his ear, that starts telling him what to do. "Touch her, Stiles."

Stiles surprises a shiver as Derek's damp breath hits his ear, it's so fucking intimate, he's about to be intimate, with people, with derek, and his teacher. Fuck.

Derek's hands are big and warm over his, coming from behind to drag them up to Jen's ass. He splays his hands out grasps them.

"Good boy," Derek whispers. "Move them like this." He draws Stiles's hands, his fingers into Jen's crack.

Stiles can feel wetness between her ridiculously smooth ass cheeks. "She's slippery!"

Jen lets out a little breathy laugh and Derek lets go of Stiles's hand to run his fingers teasingly over her hole.

He doesn't realise he's making a noise until Jen hushes him. "Shh, honey, don't want to wake up the others."

The party's been over for hours now, everyone had been celebrating their graduation at Derek's but they've long ago fallen asleep, or-- well, they were all quiet now at least. Stiles had realised Derek and Jen were missing early in the night, and Lydia had made some dismissive comment about them probably fucking upstairs. But dammit, they had every night to fuck, and only one night to celebrate their graduation.

He hadn't expect them to invite him to join in.

"Stiles, focus." Jen's cupping his face now, her jaw a blotchy red from Derek. She's settled her cunt onto of his dick through the material and he likes the weight, the heat of it on top of him.

Derek's chest is sweaty and slick against his back, his cock is so hard. He can't measure up to these two, fuck, what is he even doing here?

It's Derek that shows him how to fuck her, fingers around his wrist as he gets his English teacher off. It's Jen he comes all over, watches Derek lick her clean. 

He falls asleep squashed between them. Wakes up to breakfast and painkillers, still unsure of how, or why, but he finds it doesn't care.

* * *

27.  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles  
 **Crossover (just for fun):** Constantine 

Stiles grinned at the bouncer, fangs elongating slightly as the card was lifted from the deck. On a normal night, when he just wanted a stiff drink and the relaxing company of fellow freaks, Stiles would have teased the bouncer with descriptions of creatures in people’s clothing that were technically accurate while being annoyingly absurd. But not tonight. Tonight, his favorite angel was finally off-duty and waiting for him.

“Duck in a hat,” he said as the visual of the card - admittance to Papa Midnight’s - clarified itself in his mind’s eye. The bouncer, familiar with Stiles’ usual antics, raised an eyebrow at him for his quick and accurate description but didn’t waste breath on question. He merely lifted the rope and let Stiles through.

At the witching hour, the club was packed with creatures of various species and proclivities. Here alone both the god-touched and devil-born could mingle without fear of retribution. A haven for those who rise and those who fall, but aren’t yet high or low enough to be noticed. 

The only place Stiles and Derek could be together without fear of swift retribution.

Stiles could feel his eyes glow red as his excitement grew, his black wings fluttering invisibly in the third dimension as his sought out his lover. It didn’t take long; Derek was in the back, only a few tables away from where Midnight was holding court. Stiles smirked as he caught the flash of blue eyes, and he launched himself across the room and into Derek’s lap without a care for the hissing red-eyes he shoved out of his way.

Derek chuckled deeply, catching Stiles in his massive arms without even a raised eyebrow. “Missed me?”

“Of course not,” Stiles huffed even as he buried his nose in Derek’s neck, unhappily taking in the smell of old blood there. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Derek asked dryly.

“Oh, I don’t know? Because you were against a dozen ashgar, all by yourself, in Mexico last week for that, that _spooonbender_.”

“Potential prophet,” Derek reminded him. “And I’m fine.”

Stiles hummed and licked a long line up Derek’s throat, the sulfur on his tongue bringing just the lightest sting of pain to Derek’s skin - just the way Derek liked it. Derek hissed and pulled back, blue eyes glowing fiercely in the dark of the club.

“No dancing tonight, I take it?” Derek asked roughly, and Stiles let his vision grow, expanding beyond the human plane, to see Derek’s giant white wings unfurling behind him as Stiles pressed the heel of his hand over Derek’s denim-covered cock. 

Stiles moved from sitting in Derek’s lap to straddling him, knees pressed to either side of Derek’s thighs. He curled over Derek and brought his wings around them, grinning when Derek did the same. Black feathers mixed with white and sheltered them in the silent cocoon of their own tiny, private world.

“No dancing tonight,” Stiles agreed as he unzipped Derek’s fly and dipped his hand inside. “No mingling, no politics, no jokes about guardian angels and demons of mischief. Just you and me.”

Derek groaned, let his head fall back, and thrust into Stiles’ grip before snapping his head up to capture Stiles’ mouth in a kiss. Stiles attacked Derek’s mouth viciously as he stroked harder and faster, wanting to mark Derek, to leave something behind that warned everyone that Derek was his, and they would have hell on their hands - literally - if they hurt his angel.

From somewhere beyond the safe haven of their wings, a door opened and someone hacked a painful, smoker’s cough. “There are rooms upstairs, you know.”

“Fuck off, exorcist, so I can get off,” Derek growled, and the unseen man laughed.

“Nice to see you, too, Derek. Stiles.”

“John,” Stiles sighed. He let his head thump onto Derek’s collarbone in frustration, moment ruined. 

“He’s not wrong,” Derek whispered in his ear as Constantine's retreating steps disappeared into the crowd. He pushed Stiles’ hand away and zipped up his jeans. He retracted his wings, and Stiles followed suit, groaning in frustration. “Shall we?” Derek asked, pushing Stiles off his lap and standing. He held out his hand for Stiles, eyes still glowing bright with lust and love.

“We shall,” Stiles smirked, reaching out to take Derek’s hand in return. “And yes, you asshole. I missed you, too.”

Derek laughed all the way upstairs.

* * *

28.  
 **Warnings:** Non-con, mild xeno  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/Scott/Alpha!Peter

The alpha curled around Scott in a parody of a cuddle. His dick brushed against Scott’s ass to deliver an unspoken threat with every exhale. Scott hated this. He never wanted the Alpha’s teeth – now hovering somewhere around his throat, ready to rip at the slightest provocation – either. 

He shifted to relieve some of the Alpha’s weight on his back and set off a wail of pain from underneath them.

The entire room smelled like blood. 

Specifically, Stiles’ blood. 

It was still hot and free of the stench of death, but the Alpha had been toying with them for hours. Stiles had bled enough to coat the front of Scott’s body where Scott pressed collarbone to cock against him. 

“Scott,” Stiles said. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it; the first time, it had been a cry for help, and after that a curse, until now it was nothing at all. Just another exhale from a wounded animal. A remote part of Scott wondered that Stiles could still speak, especially when he continued: “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t want to.” Scott felt the monster at his throat with every syllable. Anything he said could be the final straw that lead to his death, or worse, Stiles’. “This isn’t me. I know this isn’t me.”

The Alpha ignored his words. Instead, the monster dug his claw-tipped, human-shaped hands into Scott’s hips and pressed him forward again to rut against Stiles’ ass until he was hard. Scott lost count of how many times they’d done this a few hours ago; his hips healed but Stiles didn’t. 

“This isn’t me, Stiles,” he said, over and over, as the Alpha’s hands push him into Stiles. They’d started with no lube but by then the way was as wet and easy as it was warm.

“This is you,” the Alpha growled. “The faster you accept it, the less people you loved will get hurt.” 

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt!”

“Then stop it!” Stiles interrupted. “Scott - stop. I know this isn’t you. You don’t want to do this.”

“You do,” the Alpha said. “You want to do this because if it wasn’t Stiles, it would be Allison. Or your mother. And you wouldn’t care, because you want to hurt something.”

“I don’t want to hurt him!” The Alpha was wrong. Hurting Stiles was agony; it felt like extinguishing the last bit of light in him when he came inside Stiles. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Then why are you?” Stiles shouted with all the force Scott thought he’d lost. Amazingly, he could still struggle enough to try and crawl free of Scott’s arms. Scott held Stiles tight, knowing the Alpha would kill him if he managed to run. Don’t attract an Alpha predator’s attention, Scott thought. Don’t be prey.

“He’ll kill us both if I don’t.” 

Stiles twisted in his grip, finally managing to turn over and stare at Scott from inches away. He didn’t look at the Alpha, just at Scott with an expression of fear so intense that it made the wolf in Scott howl. 

“Who?” Stiles asked. “Scott, you’re the only one here.”

Scott looked back: the Alpha had disappeared like he’d never been. 

He looked forward: Stiles was gone from his bed and had taken all his blood with him.

Scott woke with his cheeks wet with tears and his pants soaked through with come. Three feet away, oblivious and smiling faintly in his sleep, lay an entirely uninjured Stiles. Scott stared at him with yellow eyes for a long time. He didn’t sleep again that night. Instead, he sat by the window, waiting and dreading the Alpha’s call.

* * *

29\.   
**Warnings:** None  
 **Pairing:** Stiles Stillinski/Derek Hale

***

If you ask Stiles about that night he’ll tell you that he doesn’t remember anything but a white world and ice. The night his life changed. 

***

If you ask Derek about that night he’ll tell you that he doesn’t remember anything but darkness and then the burst of fire. 

***

Good and evil, they fight side by side every single day. The light and right side of the force as Stiles likens their little troop to against the dark death eaters that have come to life inside of Beacon Hills. It’s their own personal backgammon game: Black against White. Stiles rambles on and on while he’s bleeding out on the table and Derek wants him to shut up because the red is too stark against Stiles’ perfect ivory torso. Instead, he pushes Stiles bangs back from his forehead and kisses it. “Shut up,” he whispers. 

Derek never thought of it like good versus evil. It was always ‘us versus them’. It was always his kind against invading humans, hunters, and other hellhounds. He’s never wanted to kill anyone more than right now though. Instinct has him wanting to protect pack because deep down in his core Stiles is his in a way that he’ll never be Scott’s. And that makes Derek want to kill more than he wants to stand here holding Stiles’ hand. 

But he stays. 

***

Two weeks Stiles chomps at the bit, driving everyone manic and crazy (because Stiles’ is a little manic and crazy under it all and normally he loves waving that flag high enough for everyone to see but those within his blast radius while he heals are hit the hardest). Derek sends everyone away for the weekend when Stiles gets his stitches out. They’re no sooner back from Deaton’s than Derek lets the door slam behind him and pulls Stiles back hard, spinning him against the door. 

“You hurt anywhere?” It’s the only concession he’s going to give Stiles right now. 

Wide-eyed, Stiles shakes his head. 

“Good,” Derek replies. And then he dives in. 

He rips Stiles’ shirts off (because there’s a fucking layer or nine on the kid). Bypassing his mouth, Derek nuzzles in at Stiles’ neck, nipping at Stiles’ collarbone just hard enough to leave a mark but careful enough so he won’t break skin. 

Because this perfectly, gangly man-child in front of him is the light in the dark. 

He’s the beauty in the details. 

And Derek focuses on the details, mouthing at the moles all down Stiles’ chest. The trail of hair that leads down into Stiles’ jeans is soft yet wiry, but it feels good to run his lips along it. Derek doesn’t ignore the scars that litter Stiles’ body, they’re pink and healed over save one. Pausing, he presses his lips, close-mouthed, to the new wound. Here, he lays his heart and says his confession. Breathing out, Stiles hands are shaking but running through the hair on Derek’s head. He unbuttons Stiles’ jeans. Standing, Derek pulls on Stiles’ hips and pulls him back towards the bed. He wants all of Stiles. He wants the shaking shuddering breath right before Stiles comes. 

Everything they need is in the bedside drawer and Stiles has it out before Derek’s jeans hit the floor. Crawling up the bed, Derek kisses Stiles ankle, his knee, inside of his thigh and lastly his hipbone. Everything that follows is sensation until Stiles pulls on him. 

Warm and wet, Derek sinks in. Pausing now, he looks down at Stiles. 

“Look at me.”

Stiles’ eyes flutter open and Derek looks down into those brown almost black eyes. 

“Love you.”

Tears shine up his eyes and Derek leans down to nuzzle at him. 

“C’mere, oh my god, come here.” 

Stiles’ arms are up and around him and Derek brings his just under Stiles’ shoulder blades. A fast furious fuck is out the window because Derek moves slow like his limbs are weighed down with something he wouldn’t let himself feel before. 

“I love you, too, dumbass.”

Laughing, Derek should’ve known it would be like this. 

***

If you ask Derek about that night, he won’t say a word, he just smiles. 

***

If you ask Stiles about that night, he grins, and gives a twenty minute dissertation about the light and dark side of the force with an ending summation of: “It’s really all about love, man.”

* * *

30\.   
**Warnings:** Mentions of Derek and Kate, and Derek's PTSD   
**Pairing:** Derek/Chris

Derek hates the bright lights. The sterile smell and the white lab coats make his skin itch, yet it's the damn lights that almost make him walk back out.

But their rent's due tomorrow and Laura's just as broke as he is. This place pays four hundred in cash for werewolf blood samples, and since moving to New York, Derek's discovered people are willing to take a lot more from him for a lot less in return.

He doesn't ask questions; that's part of the deal. He tells himself he doesn't care what they do with his blood. 

"Back again, Derek?"

Turning, Derek sees Chris, who took his sample last time. He's older and gorgeous, and Derek hates that after everything with Kate, he still has a thing for people ten years his senior.

He ducks his head and shrugs, shoulders slumped like he's sixteen again. "Tight month."

Chris hums, looking at his clipboard. "Lucky for us then." He's got a hard smile. 

As Derek's signing the waiver, Chris clears his throat. "Listen, our lab's expanding its research," he begins his practiced speech. "If you're willing, the pay's more than double."

Derek's eyes narrow at the bullshit speak. "What do you want and how much are we talking?"

Grinning, Chris cuts right to the chase. "Semen. And 1k."

"Jesus." A thousand would set him and Laura up for a couple months. 

His interest must be written on his face because Chris holds out a new waiver and a sample jar. 

"You can use my office," Chris says, while Derek's skimming the form. "But I have to be present to ensure it's a clean sample."

He follows Chris to a small room off the main lab.

Derek squints, overwhelmed with how bright the room is. "This isn't going to work," he says, mortified as he palms his soft dick.

It's not PTSD, he tells himself. It's just that Kate loved to ride him with a hot spotlight right in his face. She'd laugh as he squinted and turned away from it, baring his throat as he came. 

Now, even the street light glowing into his dirty apartment window bugs him. The only way he gets off these days is in their window-less bathroom, lights off. He gives his cock a vicious squeeze; a thousand bucks is a damn good incentive, but nothing's happening.

"Can you-- can the lights be off?" Derek says, eyes on the wall. "You can turn them on when I'm going to… you know." He sounds twelve.

Chris doesn't mock him, not like Kate would've. He just hands over a packet of lube and flips the lights off.

Instantly, Derek's other senses become sharper, like brightness muted the world. He can hear Chris' heartbeat quicken, though whether from being alone in the dark with a werewolf, or because Derek's audibly lowering his zipper, he isn't sure.

The room smells of paper and dust like it's not used often, but now it's mostly Chris' aftershave and their combined arousal. Derek's having no trouble getting hard.

His biggest struggle is trying to keep quiet. He tries to pretend he's alone; he hasn't been with anyone since Kate. But he can hear Chris' pulse race, and fuck, if it doesn't make him harder. 

Derek tugs at his cock with a slicked hand. The slap of skin is loud and it makes Derek's cheeks burn. He wonders if Chris is listening. He can picture Chris in his mind, staring into the dark at the shadow Derek makes, maybe trying to catch a glimpse. 

At the sound of Chris' throat clearing, Derek's fucking lost.

"Ah, fuck," he says, trying to hold back, "Close."

The lights go on. He barely notices. 

Chris' face is so red and there's a thick outline of an erection in his jeans. He rushes forward, eyes on Derek's cock as he holds out the plastic cup so it's positioned to take Derek's load.

Derek gives a last couple pumps and tries to aim. The head of his dick grazes Chris' fingers in his hurry. Chris doesn't move away, instead he directs the tip, getting his fingers lube-messy. Derek' dick spasms with the first spurt; they both startle and laugh. Then Chris is keeping him steady -- a hand on his dick, another holding the cup as it fills.

A slow pump of Chris' hand and Derek shudders through his last dribble.

They stare at each other, panting, and Derek wonders if it'd be okay to ask Chris his last name.

* * *

31\.   
**Warnings:** Nope  
 **Pairing:** Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

**Note: this is written based on a picture of future!Stiles that I can't find. I'm terribly sorry. I figure this takes place after 3A. 3B never happened.**

The door opens to two voices. He looks up with startled eyes. They never come back so soon after a 'session'.

"This is him?"

The voice is familiar, but Derek doesn't know why.

"Only Hale left."

"Good."

Derek watches as two people step into view and immediately realizes why the one sounds familiar.

Stiles stands with his hands in his pocket. Derek's not sure what he expects after so many years, but this isn't it.

Stiles still has messy hair. It's a little longer now, but it's styled nicely. He has hair on his face too. That doesn't stand out quite like the three long scars that start at the top of his left brow, stretch diagonally through his eye, and continue down his cheek. It creates a very different look than the soft-faced teenager he knew.

The rest of Stiles, from what he can see, is covered in tattoos and scars.

"Tell your boss I'll take him," Stiles says, offering only a glance toward the man.

Derek watches the man go, tries not to think the worst when Stiles moves toward the dial controlling how much electricity is pumped through him.

Stiles turns the dial down without turning it off completely. It's enough for Derek to rebuild some of his strength.

"I'm sure Argent will appreciate the gift."

Something about the way he says 'Argent' stands out in Derek's mind. It takes him another moment to feel his strength starting to return.

Stiles just smiles cheekily.

~

The breakout doesn't go as smoothly as Stiles had anticipated, but they got Derek out alive.

He tosses a bag back to Derek. "Clothes. We're two hours away from home."

Home sounds so foreign in Derek's head, but he pulls the shirt on first. He glances up at the rearview mirror, but Chris is focused on the road and Stiles is texting.

He shifts until he can get his shredded jeans off and pulls on the clean sweatpants. They fit well, and, to his surprise, they smell like Stiles.

~

Derek doesn't know at what point he drifted off, but he's woken up when the car comes to a stop. He groans as he sits up more fully.

"We're here," Stiles says and slips out of the car.

Stiles isn't exactly talkative as he points Derek toward the shower. Derek finds himself missing the endless babbling. It's preferred to this, but he guesses Stiles really has changed.

He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and sees all of the exhaustion, mental and physical. He's a bit smaller now. He's been running a long time. He's not sure he would have stopped had the hunters not caught him.

He spends more time enjoying the hot spray than he does washing up. He doesn't hear anyone come in, nor does he notice Stiles standing so close until Stiles' hand is on his arm. 

'You okay?' Registers after Derek jumps back.

"Fine."

Stiles stares at him, as if he's trying to decide for himself whether or not Derek's truly fine. Derek can't help but look Stiles over. He's bigger, stronger.

Derek is so caught in the changes that he doesn't even notice Stiles leaning closer until Stiles is kissing him. He's surprised initially, but he kisses back.

"You're a bastard," Stiles says when he breaks the kiss.

He knows. He left with the promise that he would be back. He left after Stiles told him he loved him.

"I know."

Stiles crushes their lips together. He touches everywhere, like he's trying to find the right place, and he doesn't seem to care that he's getting wet.

Derek lets Stiles push him up against the shower. His own hands find their way into Stiles' hair.

Stiles works the front of his jeans open, while kissing down Derek's neck. There's movement that Derek doesn't pay attention to until he feels the tip of Stiles' cock press against his entrance.

Stiles thrusts in with one smooth motion. He barely gives Derek a chance to adjust before he fucks into him hard and fast.

Derek hooks a leg around him, which Stiles curls his arm under. His other hand presses against the shower wall close to Derek's head. His breathing is fast against Derek's neck, movements increasingly erratic.

He bites down on Derek's neck to keep quiet as he comes inside of him. Slumps against him, exhausted, and tries to regain his composure. When he does, he looks at Derek for a moment before speaking, "You're still a bastard."

* * *

32\.   
**Warnings:** Sex working/sex club, voyeurism/peep shows  
 **Pairing:** Scott/Isaac (sort of!), Chris Argent, (sort of) Chris/Isaac

Chris entered the dark room, already hard from the thought of what he was about to do. He had a pocket full of bills and a night that stretched endlessly in front of him. 

Verifying the peep-room was empty, he pushed his jeans to mid-thigh, his cock springing out since he'd foregone underwear. His bare ass hit the seat, the thought of all the others that had graced the chair adding an even _dirtier_ edge evening. 

He stared at the screen, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip as he worked himself up, teasing himself with what might be behind it. The screen could roll up on a tender, vanilla scene or… His cock twitched in his grip as he thought of chains, whips, black leather against pale skin. 

The hunter in him purred at the thought.

With a shaky sigh, he sat forward on the chair, his balls pressing against the surface as he fed his first bill to the machine. The screen popped up, gave him a glimpse, then dropped again. A coy little wink to set the scene: a flash of creamy skin against tanned, light hair tangled with dark. 

The screen slowly rose again until it was halfway. He could see legs, strong and masculine, the arch of a foot dangling off a padded table. The screen stuttered a little before beginning its ascent again and then Chris sat frozen, paralyzed in the chair while his dick leapt at the sight in front of him.

It was probably the most beautiful scene he'd ever witnessed here, and that would have been enough for him to get off on by itself, but… But behind the screen was Scott McCall.

And _Isaac_. 

The boy who'd left his house earlier with a flutter of eyelashes against his cheeks as he promised not to be home too late. That he was just going out with friends.

Chris' breath stuttered in his chest, and he knew he should get up right now. Leave. But he'd never been harder in his life. Guilt and lust twined through him, ratcheting his desire up another notch until he was gripping the arms of the chair with fingers gone white while he tried not to shoot off completely untouched.

Isaac was lying on the table, legs splayed as Scott sucked kisses from his neck to his navel. Suddenly, Scott's head jerked up and he turned toward the window, eyes going wide before flaring red for the briefest moment. A moment that anyone who didn't know about werewolves would discount as a trick of the light. But then his lips curved up in a wicked little grin and Chris knew. 

Scott had seen him through the glass. Or smelled him. Those fucking werewolf senses had pegged him for a dirty pervert who jerked it to peep shows.

And Chris had no defense because he was _still there_.

His eyes closed in shame when he saw Scott's lips forming words; he couldn't look, couldn't see the disgust on Isaac's face when he realized who was on the other side of the glass. 

The whine of the screen brought him back to himself and his eyes popped open again, just in time to lock gazes with Isaac, whose cheeks were red, his lips forming Chris' name. His long, lean body shuddered, and Chris watched as the flush spread down his chest, his already full cock twitching and leaking come onto his stomach.

Chris fumbled the next bill, fingers numb with shock, shame, and greedy lust. He got it in the machine in time to stop the screen from dropping all the way. As it raised again, Isaac moved. _Toward_ Chris, not away.

Isaac braced his hands on the window, letting Chris drink in the sight of his body, every inch of it naked to his gaze. The bruises on his hips that would line up perfectly with Scott's fingers, the ones on his neck that could only be from blunt, human teeth. Chris shuddered, longing to touch them before they faded.

Dragging his eyes further up, Chris felt gut-punched when he saw that Isaac's eyes were glowing yellow. He must have been standing there staring for far too long because the screen started lowering again. 

"Stay." Isaac mouthed, dipping his head to maintain eye-contact. "Please."

Chris had a pocket full of bills and two hours before Isaac was due home. He settled back in the seat and fed the machine again.

* * *

33\.   
**Warnings:** None  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/Derek

"Is she finally asleep?" Stiles murmured quietly as Derek settled behind him on the couch.

Derek hummed, mouthing at Stiles' neck easily. "Yeah, fell right to sleep without too much of a fuss. What're we watching?"

"Nothing important," Stiles breathed out, tilting his head to give Derek more access. "It's been a while since we had this, huh?"

"Your father said you were worse at her age," Derek teased, dragging his nose along the curve of Stiles' jaw, relishing in the smell of _home_ and _pack_ and _family_. "I'm surprised we have free time at all, to be honest."

"Oh, you are the worst," Stiles complained, twisting around to glare at Derek, although the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth said otherwise. "Jesus, you are beautiful," he murmured, twisting around to press the words into Derek's mouth, as if that would somehow make Derek believe it.

"You are, you know," he pulled away, still close enough to see the flecks of gold in Derek's seafoam eyes. "Not just physically, but trust me, you're that too," he laughed, and Derek pushed forward to taste it, licking into Stiles' mouth and moaning when Stiles sucked on his tongue.

Not for the first time, Derek wondered how this was his life. It'd been years, but it was still hard to believe he _married_ _Stiles_ , and he had a beautiful daughter to boot.

"Everything okay?" Stiles whispered into Derek's skin, his eyes studying Derek carefully.

Derek nodded. "Just thinking about you and Laur, and how lucky I am."

Stiles' eyes went liquid.

"God, I really need to blow you like, right now," Stiles declared, beaming when that got a laugh out of Derek. "I mean, you... You're everything to me," he said earnestly, and Derek felt his heart flip in his chest. "I never thought I'd have this," he continued softly, as if he hadn't just turned Derek's world upside down. He got up off the couch and ducked in to kiss Derek briefly before dropping to his knees in between Derek's spread legs. "I love you a lot, you know? And sometimes it aches in my chest, and I just want to tell you all the time, remind you that I _do_ , I do love you," he blinked up at Derek, who was beginning to feel like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. There's a brief twist to Stiles' lips, a wry smile spreading across his features. "You're _so_ important to me," Stiles' fingers dug into Derek's knees. "You're so important," he repeated, shooting a small smile at the hole in Derek's jeans.

Derek was quiet for a moment, and when Stiles looked up, he was surprised to find Derek holding back tears.

Before he could say anything, however, Derek tilted Stiles' chin up to kiss him as sweetly as he knew how, a kiss that fizzles all the way to Stiles' toes.

"I wouldn't know where I would be without you," Derek said honestly, his voice hoarse. "I was so _lost_ , and you helped me get back. You made me feel whole again, and you gave me Laura, and Stiles, you gave me my life back, _Christ_ " he hisses through his teeth when Stiles' fingers brush over his erection in his haste to unzip Derek. "You make me feel... You make me feel like I'm _worth_ something."

Stiles kissed the skin above Derek's jeans. "That's because you are," he said simply, before he sucked the head of Derek's cock into his mouth, riding the way Derek's hips bucked upward when he moaned.

He blew Derek thoroughly, coaxing the orgasm out of his body slowly, the feeling building at the base of Derek's spine, until Derek was clawing at the cushions, his eyes squeezed firmly shut as he fought for control.

"Come for me, Derek," Stiles murmured, and Derek comes so hard it looks painful, his mouth open in a silent groan, because he hasn't been able to say no to Stiles in a very long time.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, he felt his heart thud in his chest when he saw Stiles staring at him, his expression fond and open. Reaching over to help Stiles' get off, Derek blinked when Stiles shook his head, grabbing his hand to entwine their fingers together instead.

"I'm fine," he told Derek softly. "You're perfect. I love you."

Derek kissed him again, and gives himself all up to Stiles.

* * *

34\.   
**Warnings:** None  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

Derek’s key scraped against the lock of Stiles’ dorm room door, and he eased it open just enough to slip in. It was pretty early in the morning, and he was hoping to surprise Stiles with his impromptu visit. It had been weeks since they’d actually seen each other, and while they may be in almost constant touch by phone or text, it just wasn’t the same. Derek missed Stiles.

Stopping just inside the door, Derek leaned against the jamb, bending to take off his shoes, and smiled softly at the bed. Stiles lay there on his stomach, his face buried in a pillow, his arm twisted behind him in what looked like a really uncomfortable angle. Almost like he’d just rolled over and couldn’t be bothered to settle in better.

Derek huffed with amusement and shook his head. He padded quietly across the room, leaving a trail of clothes behind him, and put his knee on the bed. Carefully, he moved the papers and books that were still strewn there from Stiles’ latest research jag, stacking them neatly on the desk. 

He eased himself onto the bed and gently gathered Stiles into his arms, inhaling deeply. He let that much missed scent wash over him, allowing it to fill his senses. Stiles squirmed and muttered as Derek lightly traced between the moles on his back. 

“Derek?” Stiles muttered groggily, rolling to look over his shoulder. A tired, happy smile crawled across his face. Rolling him over completely, Derek cupped Stiles’ jaw and gently coaxed his mouth open, licking in and sighing contentedly at the taste. He had missed this in the long weeks since Stiles had been home. 

Eager hands stroked over pale, naked skin. Derek pulled Stiles closer, lining their bodies up until there was no space between them. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered against Stiles bright pink lips before licking back into Stiles’ mouth. 

He worked his way down Stiles’ neck, planting a kiss here, grazing a fang there. He stopped to suck a mark right over Stiles’ heart and grinned when Stiles arched into his lips and moaned wantonly. 

Hands cupped his face and tugged. “Get up here,” Stiles panted, pulling him back up and rolling them until he was straddling Derek. Their cocks rubbed together, and they both gasped. Derek arched into it, chasing the frission of pleasure that jolted up his spine.

Glancing down at Stiles’ crotch, Derek raised a brow. “A little overdressed for this, don’t you think?” 

Stiles grinned cheekily, jumped to his feet, and stripped off his boxers. Falling back to his knees, he draped himself over his boyfriend. “Better?” he asked with an arched brow.

In answer, Derek flipped them and ground down, drawing a wailing moan from Stiles. He rocked their hips together, their cocks dragging together. He lay gentle, open-mouthed kisses across Stiles’ throat, lapping at the sweat that collected there as they rutted against each other. 

Stiles’ hands wandered down Derek’s back to grab his ass, urging him on as he peppered Derek’s face with sloppy, uncoordinated kisses. Derek lost himself in the feel of Stiles beneath him, of the slick slide of their skin. It felt amazing to have him in his arms again, to feel the push and pull of lithe muscle over delicate flesh.

He could feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine and lifted up just enough to slip his hand between them and wrap it around both their cocks. Three, four strokes later and Stiles stiffened under him, his orgasm ripped out of him in a moaning cry. Derek let go and dropped back down, driving his cock through the mess on Stiles’ stomach, chasing his release. 

Stiles’ dry finger just breaching his hole shocked him into climax. He collapsed on Stiles for a moment, trading lazy kisses between them until Stiles pushed him off, whining about the weight. He reached down the side of the bed, fishing around for a pair of discarded boxers to half-heartedly wipe at the mess between them. Stiles just watched him with half-lidded eyes, yawning and stretching and snuggling back down into the sheets. 

Derek settled in next to him and wrapped him up in his arms, planting gentle kisses on whatever skin he could reach. Stiles cuddled against him, his breathing evening out as he blinked, obviously trying to stay awake. 

“‘M glad you came,” he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.

Derek smiled and kissed his temple. “So am I.”

* * *

35\.   
**Warnings:** Non con/ Drugged   
**Pairing:** Stiles/OMC Pre Stiles/Derek

Even if you lived under a rock, everyone in Beacon Hills knew about the Hale twins. Devon; Popular. Outgoing. A perpetual ray of sunshine. And Derek; Quite. Brooding. Looked like a rain cloud followed him always.

At school while Devon was being a gravitational force with his friends orbiting around him, Derek would seek solitude in the library. It was a bright spot in Stiles almost weekly, Harris appointed, detection.

Most of the time Derek would ignore Stiles, choosing to pull out books, until he found the one with the most depressing description he could find. Not that Stiles minded. He got to oggle Derek’s sinful ass, clad in jeans that looked like he had them shrunk onto his body, as he hummed the score from _Cinderella._

Normally Derek would snag a book off the shelves and go find the darkest corner to read in. But on rare days Derek would gruffly ask if he had yet to shelf some unpronounceable Russian author. Stiles liked those days, Derek’s throaty voices made Stiles stomach do twists he only thought the X2 at Six Flags could do. 

Anybody who was anybody, and some who were nobodys, went to Lydia’s parties. Even the senior Hale twins were seen at a sophomore's party, if that sophomore was Lydia. Stiles and Scott _had_ to go!

It was kinda anti-climatic when they didn't even need to seek in. Scott had a mission. Locate, target, and talk to the new girl, Allison. Stiles’ mission - try not to look like a dweeb. 

Stiles nodded to acquaintances, stopped to chat with some guys he was paired up with chem a few times, and even shot Derek a long distance smile before the senior scowled and walked away.

About the second glass of _punch_ in, Stiles was far less nervous. Seemed once again Hollywood and internet hype made a mountain out of a molehill. He could do this. He could _hang._

“Hey, you’re Stiles aren't you?” Stiles looked over at the familiar deep voice, only to see the shining smile of Devon. “Wow, I don't think my brother could be more wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“Derek, always going on about that annoying kid humming off key in the library. How he’s annoyed he can’t get any reading done when you're working. Punch?”

Something in Stiles chest deflated. Derek was annoyed with him? He didn't expect undying friendship, but for Derek to bitch about him...

Taking the offered cup, Stiles downed the drink. “Take it easy Stiles, there’s still plenty.” 

Stiles nodded, crushing the cup in his hand. Devon was right his head felt a little off. 

“So Stiles, why _are_ you always in the library with so much?”

Stiles looked up at Devon, his face was fuzzy around the edges, “Um. Harris?”

“Stiles are you ok, you look green?”

“I’m I think I drank that a little fast,” Stiles said before he looked down at his wrist, feeling an alain pressure on it. 

Devon was holding his hand and shoulder, “Lets get you out of here.”

“Huh?” was the only sound Stiles made before the world became a kaleidoscope of colors a la Willie Wonka's psychedelic boat tunnel. We his vision steadied somewhat, Stiles was on his back on something marshmallow soft. And was just as hard to get out of. 

“Shh, if you don’t fight, this wont hurt. Much.” Derek - no Devon’s voice said from somewhere outside of his vision. 

Stiles felt cool air on his lower abdomen, “I don’t like this.”

“You’ll love it. All boys do.” 

Stiles felt a pulling at his hips and something giving way, letting the cool air travel lower. Stiles was shivering, but his didn’t know if it was from cold or and inbound fear.

“You even have moles on your hips.” Devon chuckled before Stiles felt something hot and wet run from his hip to his inside thigh. 

The wetness traveled over his coarse hair, before it was adbruplie gone and the sound of yelling took it’s places. Stiles tried to pull up and see who was yelling, to tell them this wasn’t right. 

The sound of flesh hitting flesh stopped Stiles from wiggling. Stiles sat half up, trying to see who was with him and Devon.

“Shit Stiles are you okay?”

“Devon?” Stiles asked pulling back from the face that he could barely make out.

“No,” Derek growled, before he softly add, “here let’s get you covered.”

“Derek, what happened?” Stiles felt safer with a blanket and Derek’s arms around him.

“Devon. Always trying to take things I like.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, we'll talk later.”

* * *

36\.   
**Warnings:** None  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/Peter

Beacon Hills was an adder's nest of supernatural scumbags who went to the Jungle to party and get drunk.

Peter came to watch Stiles.

Beautiful Stiles, who was an angel on the stage. Sometimes, Peter let himself believe Stiles was dancing just for _him_.

But of course, he didn't. No one could see Peter sitting in the darkest corner of the club. Stiles wouldn't even know who Peter was. At best, the bouncer might point Peter out if Stiles wondered who was sending all the gifts.

Peter closed his eyes. He tapped a claw on the table, eager for the cowboy act to end. The raucous chorus of some country song playing to a rock-and-roll beat gave him a migraine, and he couldn't wait for Stiles' more sultry, sensuous music. He'd had a bad day. All he wanted was to see Stiles.

The cowboy was replaced by a fireman waving his hose to screechy pop rock. Peter frowned. This was Stiles' slot. Where was --

"Hey, sugar."

Stiles stood three feet away under a beam of white light, his oiled skin glittering where it wasn't covered by the little red trench coat that Peter had sent him over a month ago. His head tilted as he squinted to see through the shadows, and Peter... Peter leaned away. He didn't want his angel to see his scars.

"You're supposed to be dancing," Peter said roughly.

"You always leave when I'm done," Stiles countered. He canted a hip and lowered his chin, smiling a sweet smile. "I thought I'd offer you a private dance."

Peter's claws scraped the table. A chance to touch. To run fingertips on bare skin. To feel Stiles with nothing but the fabric of Peter's trousers in-between. 

"No," he growled.

"Please?" Stiles asked, walking closer. He sounded so pretty, begging. Peter closed his eyes again, biting back a groan. "You give me so much. You take care of my dad's hospital bills when I don't make enough. You make sure I get home safe --"

"Because I want to. Not because I expect... this," Peter said. He trailed off when Stiles bracketed his thighs with long legs, his hips twisting in a teasing little dance.

"And maybe I want you to take me home and keep me," Stiles said, crawling onto the wide chair. He was backlit by a pale blue light that gave him an angelic halo. "Keep me and take care of me. Just like I'll take care of you. I'd be so good for you."

Stiles' weight on Peter's lap was a balm, but somehow, _somehow_ , he kept his hands away. 

"You don't want me," Peter groaned, turning his face away. Stiles ground down against him and his warmth was... torture. "I'm a monster."

"We're all monsters," Stiles murmured, opening his coat coat. He was deliciously naked, his cock erect, his skin positively _luminous_. Peter could believe him an angel after all, come to rescue Peter from the dark pit that was his Hell.

Peter caved.

His hands ran up Stiles' bare thighs, savouring every inch. Stiles rutted against him with increasing pressure before drawing back with a moan. He unzipped Peter slowly, stroking Peter's cock as he pulled it out.

"Stiles --" 

"They won't see," Stiles murmured. The shadows were like pitch around them, and yet, the light remained on Stiles, bright and white and pure.

"If I keep you," Peter said hoarsely, "I'll never let you go."

"Do you promise?" Stiles asked. He shifted, pressing the tip of Peter's cock to a hole already slick with lube. To know that Stiles had prepared himself, that he'd come out on the main floor for _Peter_ when he never came out for anyone else...

"I would give you the world."

Stiles sank down with a breathy moan, pausing before rocking sinuously onto him. Peter scratched the curve of Stiles' pert ass, fingers inching closer to his hole, feeling where his cock slid in and out, and...

Peter tilted his head back, delirious with sensation. Stiles touched the scars on his face and kissed his lips and it was too much and not enough. Peter held onto Stiles, fucking up into him. Peter trembled when Stiles' body tensed, his come pulsing onto Peter's shirt.

Peter chased his own climax, his wolf mad with lust, his teeth grazing a throat he didn't dare mark.

"Stiles. My angel," he gasped.

"No," Stiles whispered, almost in warning. "Not an angel."

Peter kissed him anyway.

* * *

37\.   
**Warnings:** non-con, triggery subject matters  
 **Pairing:** Sterek if you squint

When he opened his eyes he was at the bottom of that damned 8 feet of chlorine flushed water and giving up again. He shouldn't have opened his eyes, he thought. It was easier to drown with your eyes closed, because at least you wouldn't have to look in absolute powerlessness up at where the air was, just out of reach. Something felt off, though - something was supposed to happen, something important. He was thinking with surprising clarity beneath 8 feet of water, and his lungs hadn't even began to burn yet. Drowning should be more laborious than this - Derek knew from experience. 

One, two, three, four, five, six. Derek counted his fingers, and angrily snapped at his dream, "---Stop this, right now. I have things to do---" 

The chlorine water grew murky around him, as though a mocking, live entity, and writhed in tendrils of black. Beginning from his feet the smoggy tendrils pulled him downward by his ankles, their mood visibly stormy and rumbly, water-falling the way smoke did when flames met a dead end seeking oxygen. Derek knew that from experience too. 

"Stop this, wake up, I have---" The smoggy tendrils writhed into his mouth, stuffing it full and stretching it wide, his throat felt torn raw and opened, and other spikes of smurky water shot up past his caught ankles and impaled him in between the legs. Derek let out a muffled gurgle, and he wasn't even sure when his jeans had ripped to shreds, but the thrust and curl of the tendrils spearing him full was jostling him up and down like an anxious young buck ride. The intrusion was so violent, Derek blacked out.

When he came to, the murky waters were still at it, spreading Derek's thighs wide like a barren whore, fucking him deep. There was no actual pain, per say. More like thrusting feelings of disgust, brute invasion and trapping helplessness. His desperate biting and clawing were nothing, neither did reasoning, pleading and shameless begging. ---This was his life, though - Derek didn't know why he was surprised. Derek didn’t know how much time had passed. It was better to not think too much about it, he thought. It was best to think of your body as nothing that feels. _You are a rock. You are silent. You are unfeeling._ This Derek knew from experience as well. 

And then.

And then a hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed Derek by his scruff. He was pulled out of the water and he was wet and disgusting and nothing made sense. Derek took one look at Stiles, who was supposed to have been here much earlier than this, and threw up all over the boy's lap.

“What are you doing here?” Derek's voice cracked. “This is a dream. My dream. Get out.” He was just gangbanged by his life failures; he didn't need an audience.

"--What?" Stiles' face scrunched up, and looked down pointedly at his lapful of Derek's vomit, and then back up at Derek, "---No, no Derek, you're awake--here," he held up Derek's hand, and they count together. One, two, three, four, five. (That can't be right, Derek thought. _One, two, three, four, five._ ) He wished he could throw up again now. "Your proof of reality sucks." Derek told the human boy, who shrugged, eyeballing him without subtlety. Derek eyeballed himself also. All of his clothes were intact, apparently, and they were on the floor of his loft, no pool aside from a puddle of Derek's own blood.

Oh yeah. Kate shot him, again. Derek eyed the discarded lighter beside his hip and the burnt remains of wolfsbane powders.

"How did you get the wolfsbane?" Derek asked in mild confusion, as though surprised that--he wasn't sure what he was surprised by. He was surprised.

"Allison's dad." Stiles' voice was still a hint clipped whenever mentioning her name, but sat down with a sigh that was older than the room's air. "He went to scout the parameter. You were drowning internally. Are you, uh," Stiles made a gesture as though to encompass all the descriptives - sane? Okay now? _Not possessed, maybe?_

Derek nodded minutely, not wanting to give it a word. He probably should thank Stiles. Never really did. But for now he just wanted to sit here, where Stiles sat down. This felt safe.

* * *

38\.   
**Warnings:** none  
 **Pairing:** Chris/Derek

Chris winced as he pulled off his shirt. He'd been thrown into a wall earlier and his entire body ached.

"You okay?" 

Chris turned so that Derek could get a better look at the bruises covering his chest and arms. "Some of us take a while to heal."

Derek pointed at the bed. "Sit."

"I think you've forgotten which one of us is half dog," Chris muttered, but it was mostly for show because he did sit down where Derek pointed.

Derek grabbed Chris' hand and dark black veins immediately began syphoning the pain away. "You're always grumpy when you're hurt."

Chris had to force himself to stay upright and not slump forward against Derek as all of the pain rushed out of his body. He was so used to pain that most of the time he didn't even realize how badly his body hurt until Derek took it away. 

Chris let himself enjoy the relief for a moment before he pulled back. "That's enough. They're just bruises."

Derek frowned at him. They'd had this argument more than once. Derek was no stranger to pain, but as a born werewolf he wasn't used to the kind that lingers in a human body as it heals and he always wanted to take it away. Chris on the other hand didn't appreciate being coddled. If only he'd realized years ago what a softy Derek was they could have probably avoided a decade of grief and misery.

Derek ran his fingers over the hand-print shaped bruise on Chris arm. The wolf that had thrown him had been strong enough that each of his fingers had left clearly identifiable black stains against Chris' skin. 

"I wish I could make that go away."

"I'll heal."

Derek scowled at the bruise. "That's not the point." 

"You can cover it," Chris offered. 

"I'm not going to hurt you more just because I don't like seeing his mark on you," Derek sounded scandalized. "Covering that would take more than a hickey."

Chris rolled his eyes and pointed at the trunk he kept stocked full of medical supplies. "You can actually cover it. There's gauze in there."

"Oh." Derek's ears turned red with embarrassment and Chris' heart went out to him. Never in his life had anyone taken care of him the way Derek did. No one had ever wanted to. Being a hunter meant being tough and self-reliant. The irony wasn't lost on him that it took a werewolf to show him gentleness.

"Get the gauze and then you can mark me somewhere else." 

**

Chris arched his back as Derek bit down lightly on his inner thigh. Unlike the harsh pain from the fight, the sting from this bruise went straight to his dick.

Derek mouthed at the bite, soothing it with his tongue. Chris knew that he'd have a hickey there in the morning but he didn't mind as long as it wasn't visible—he drew the line at going to the grocery store with marks on his neck like a horny teenager. Derek would know it was there which should be enough to take away the emotional sting of someone else's hand marking Chris. 

Chris carded his fingers through Derek's hair. "While you're down there, do you mind taking care of another problem?"

Derek shifted slightly and ran his tongue up the length of Chris' dick. "That problem?"

Chris groaned. He tugged lightly at Derek's hair, trying to get him back on task. 

Derek chuckled, his warm breath ghosting over Chris' cock. Chris was going to reevaluate their no wolfsbane in the bedroom rule if Derek didn't stop teasing him soon. 

Werewolves must be psychic because as soon as "wolfsbane" crossed Chris' mind Derek rose up onto his knees and swallowed Chris' cock in one fluid movement. 

"Fuck!" Chris yelled as his dick rubbed the back of Derek's throat. There had to be something supernatural about Derek's gag reflex because no one had been able to take him like that before. 

Derek swallowed around Chris, his throat muscles massaging the head of Chris' cock. He reached one hand down to cup Chris' balls and that was all it took to make Chris shoot off like a damn teenager. 

Derek pulled away. "Better?" 

Chris clumsily hauled Derek up next to him. "You always take care of me." 

Derek rubbed his hand over the bandage on Chris' arm, sneaking his thumb under the gauze and taking a tendril of pain before Chris could stop him. "I try."

* * *

39\.   
**Warnings:** Void!Stiles  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

Void stared in the mirror. He wasn’t looking well. He looked at his hands. They were translucent. He could see right through the skin and bone down to the boy lying on the bed.

He lifted a finger and poked at his cheek. Humanity was made of such fragile stuff. Flesh and blood damaged so easily. The skin gave a little, blood pooling into the paleness, and then vanishing again. 

He attempted a smile. It had been this failing that had not convinced the boy’s mortal friends that he was not their companion. He tilted his head to one side. The unnatural stretch of lip over enamel made him grimace. The need for such frivolity was beyond him.

The boy groaned, moved in his sleep. It was only while he slept that Void could manifest. The boy was too strong when awake. That would have to be remedied. 

He rubbed a hand across his belly, fingers dipping into the soft cotton pants slung low on his hips. This part of the human body he liked. The building sensation of anticipation, and then the explosion of seed and musk.

He knew that the boy looked. He looked at the girl with hair like the sun, dreamed of fucking into her until she screamed. He looked at the boy with the burnished curls and damaged heart, wanted to fuck him until he forgot his fears. He looked at the man with the hard jaw and terrified eyes, desperate to bend over and let him do whatever he wanted.

So much desire unfulfilled was exactly what Void fed on, what nourished him. The boy was stuffed so full with lust and terror that it was like an unending banquet.

The window slid open and the wolf leapt in. His eyes flashed red when he spotted Void. “Get the fuck out of here!” His claws flexed in preparation.

“I can’t,” Void smirked, waved towards the bed. “I’m part of him.”

The wolf stepped between Void and the boy. “We’re close to finding a way to destroy you.”

His posturing made Void laugh softly. “You cannot kill me without killing him.” They still hadn’t learned.

“We’re going to do it,” the wolf sounded sure.

Void felt the first stirrings of fear. An unnatural trickle of ice down his spine. It was unprecedented and unwelcome. “You won’t succeed.” He hated that he sounded so unsure.

“We will.” The boy’s voice was sleep-rough and certain. He was pale, the constant war within against Void having taken a toll.

“You can’t.” Void watched the wolf curl around the boy, his unnaturally hot skin forming a barrier between Void and his host.

“Don’t you know?” The boy sounded scornful, as though Void had missed the entire purpose of his existence.

“Know what?” Void asked, curious at this first exchange between them. It shouldn’t have been possible, this boy talking to him as though he was a separate being. Void was part of the boy. Would never be other.

“I have magic,” the boy whispered as though a secret. “I am a spark.”

Void felt the ice speeding through his veins. When he had possessed this boy, there had been nothing of magic. Just desire and desperation coursing though him in torrents.

“Not possible.” Void said it as though merely his will could make it so.

“But true nonetheless,” the boy said, suddenly years older in Void's eyes.

The icicles that were forming inside Void's veins suddenly coalesced, solidified in the most terrifying way.

“You're the truth,” he said, sure of it all.

“Yes,” the boy replied. “I'm truth to your lies, light to your night, freedom to your captivity.”

Void was felt despair for the first time. “You need me.” He knew this to be true.

The boy grabbed on to the wolf, held him close. “No.” He was certain. “I only need _him_.”

Void felt the winter calling him. He could return any time.

“No.” The boy smiled softly. “You are done now. I win.”

Void pressed a little, tested the bond be'd formed. It was guarded at his soul by a red-eyed wolf. “I'll return,” he promised.

“We'll be waiting,” the boy said, eyes intent on the wolf in his arms.

Void felt the chains fall away, once more released into darkness. 

He watched the boy and his wolf fade away, the light fading as he passed beyond.

The boy was his. The boy was him. The boy was the wolf's. Void tried to understand.

* * *

40.

 **Warnings:** Underage, dub-con  
 **Pairing:** Peter/Lydia

Shock and horror had taken a deep hold of her: Lydia had no choice, she had to bring Peter Hale back, before she lost her sanity to the dark visions he poured into her life. 

As Peter rose from his grave, Lydia felt the life flow back into him. It was the most powerful thing she’d ever experienced. She barely registered anything beside the sensation flowing through every cell of her body. Seeing Peter move toward her was like a sequence out of a bad stop-motion film. 

“I knew, I could count on you.” He was close, running his hand over her hair and chin. 

Lydia was vaguely aware that he was completely naked, covered only by the dirt from his grave. He took hold of her and walked her into the cold, moonlit night. He was like a shadow - a shadow with a tight grasp on her wrist. With his dark presence gone from her mind, but closer than ever, she was barely coping. 

Peter put Lydia in her car and they drove away. Lydia realized he was taking her home only as her house came to sight. Lights out. It had been left empty after the police raid earlier. They slipped in through the side door. Lydia wasn’t sure what he was up to when they ended up in her bathroom. It wasn’t until he began removing her dress that she found her voice again. 

“You said you’d leave me alone,” Lydia protested with an angry sob. 

“Soon,” he whispered into her ear. 

The shower sprang to life behind her and Lydia heard a deep sigh coming from Peter. As she looked back she noticed he was holding one dirty arm under the water. A few heartbeats later, he dragged her into the shower. Stiff as a board, she tried to avoid as much contact as she could, but the pleasantly warm water sprinkling against her body made her aware how cold she had become. 

Her lips trembling, she turned to face him. “After this you will leave,” she said, determined. 

“Of course,” Peter replied with ease. 

Lydia sniffled, realizing how awful she had to look with her make-up all smeared. 

Peter cupped her face, “I wasn’t planning on leaving you out in the woods, cold and in shock. Besides, this is something we can both use.” 

Part of her wanted to draw back, and had she been herself, she would most likely have slammed her knee into his groin, but instead she stared at him. “You were dead, really dead.” 

“But not anymore.” 

Lydia needed to close her eyes, as his gaze made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Peter pulled her face, cold and teary, under the warm stream. She felt herself gasp as he let go of her. He was still close, and she found herself reaching out for something to hold onto. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll feel better soon,” he said, letting out a sigh. “I’m sorry to keep imposing on you, but …” he stopped as she shook her head. 

She was still cold and numb and wanted to believe him. Staring at her feet, she saw the dark swirls of dirty disappear into the drain. His hand ran down her neck and shoulders, making her look at him again. Lydia needed to ask. “But what?” 

His lips claimed hers and he drew her body closer. There was a hunger to the kiss. Even after her initial shock passed, she didn’t think about pushing him away; it was like a jolt of energy went through her body and swiped away the cold terror from her bones. Warmth rushed over her as she pressed herself closer, and opened her mouth. She wanted to feel more; their tongues touched. 

Her blood sparked, fueling a need to feel more. His skin felt rough under her touch, traces of dirt still clinging to him. Her soft body rubbed against his, her breasts ached inside her bra, her nipples stiffened. His hands ran firmly over her back then dug into her butt. Her nails traced deep lines on his shoulders, only to move on, needing to touch more - both of them - unable to stop. 

Almost. 

It was Peter who drew back: hands on her soaked bra, breathing heavily. Lydia was certain he felt the same desperate need, maybe even more than she did. This should’ve been where she told him to leave, and never bother again.

Instead, Lydia gave in to the moment.

* * *

41\.   
**Warnings:** Underage, Dark Themes, Major Character Death  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

Stiles can’t remember yesterday. He can’t remember the last time he saw his father, or the last person he spoke to. He walks the town of Beacon Hills morning and night, but he does not know why. He drifts from house to house, pub to pub. Hears the town folk mutter in hushed whispers.

 _That poor boy_ , they say. _What a shame_ , they say. _He had his whole life ahead of him_ , they say. They call him The Weeping Boy, but his name is Stiles Stilinski. Why they call him that, he does not know…

❧

On the first night, Derek sees his prey from across the drawing room. He’s more beautiful than any boy he’d ever seen. Skinny and pale, with lips that begged to be abused by Derek’s mouth. 

The boy laughs and smiles and reminds Derek of everything he’s not. His innocence bleeding from his whole being. Derek aches for him. 

They do not speak, but the looks they exchange are all the conversation Derek needs to find himself standing at the boy’s door. He knocks and the door cracks open.

“Hello mister,” Stiles says, shy as a fawn - and how appropriate, Derek thinks.

“May I come in?” Derek requests. Stiles is trembling. He’s never had a man in his room before, but he cracks the door the rest of the way so he can enter. 

“I’m Derek,” he tells the boy and takes him in a sure embrace. 

“I’m Stiles,” he answers. _And how beautiful._

Derek takes charge, lays his delicate boy out on the bed. Undresses him slowly, praising him with every tremble. Kisses his neck and hips and the side of his knees. Touches every inch of Stiles’s body. Stiles is pliant like the chaste virgin he is, lets Derek have every bit of him. 

When Derek pushes his cock inside Stiles, they look into each other’s eyes. It’s intimate. Derek is caring and tender with him, everything Stiles ever wanted from his first lover. And Stiles comes with tears falling down his face, hearing sweet praises slipping from Derek’s mouth. 

When they part, it’s with promises of more to come, and Stiles couldn’t be happier.

❧

On the second night, Derek beckons Stiles to the woods. 

“I want to show you something so beautiful, only you rival it in its magnificence,” Derek entices.

And Stiles follows, because how couldn’t he when Derek’s words are so sweet.

Derek leads Stiles to a clearing with a little stream where wild flowers grow. To Stiles, it’s breathtaking, the woods lit by the full moon. Derek takes his lover into his arms, kisses his lips, his neck. Stiles couldn’t feel more content here in Derek’s strong embrace. 

“I want you forever, Stiles.” Derek whispers into his ear. “Give me your loss and sorrow. Give me all of your woes.”

“You can have it all,” Stiles says.

“You’re the one, Stiles.” 

Warmth fills Stiles’s body, at last, _this is love_ , he thinks. “I’m yours,” he says.

“You’re mine,” Derek murmurs. “Your beauty haunts my every thought.” 

“Let it haunt you no further, for I am yours completely,” Stiles answers with a beaming curve of his lips.

Derek takes Stiles’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply. One last exchange of passion.

Derek ends the kiss, rolling his shoulders, grips Stiles’s face and whispers grimly in his ear, “But all beauty must die, Stiles.”

With that Derek transforms his face, fangs extending, blue eyes glowing as Stiles looks him in the eyes. Fear dances across his face, and Derek sinks his teeth into Stiles’s neck and rips out his throat. He’s holding Stiles up, feels the life leaving his body. Hears Stiles’s weeping song echo through the silent wood. 

Derek lays Stiles out in the wild flowers, as the light leaves his eyes. Looks at his beautiful creature for one last time. Eternally beautiful and perfect like this. 

“Mine,” he says to the night.

❧

 _That poor boy_ , they say. _What a shame_ , they say. _He had his whole life ahead of him_ , they say. They call him The Weeping Boy, but his name was Stiles Stilinski. 

Why they call him that, he does not know…

* * *

42\.   
**Warnings:**   
**Pairing:** Stiles/Derek

Stiles had two favorite holidays: Valentine’s Day and Halloween. Valentine’s Day because _hello, chocolate_. And Halloween because _hello, every single candy under the sun!_ And this year, this Halloween, he had planned out months ago. 

Sure, Little Red Riding Hunk was an option -- but he was sure Allison and Scott had that fairytale down. He turned around in the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The thing with costumes was that they had to be right, otherwise you end up looking a joke. Nobody wanted a joke on Halloween.

*****

The music practically vibrated in the air, lyrics thumping into each other while bodies on the floor writhed and slid against one another in the darkened room. Stiles felt hands sliding over his neck, another set of hands twisting along his wings, and another hand dip between his shoulder blades. He knew none of the bodies the hands belonged to but tonight that didn’t matter. He twisted and caught Scott’s eye and saw Allison lick a line along Scott’s jaw before his friend grinned and dropped his head back. 

Shaking his head, Stiles turned and lined his body against the first one he could reach. A naughty nurse who wrapped her stethoscope around his neck and slid a fish-netted thigh between his legs. He groaned as she whispered hotly into his ear about how bad she’d been. 

“God yes,” he whispered and began to lead her, stethoscope leash and all, through the mass of bodies. Hands and bodies heated and slid against them, he turned and pulled her mouth to his; bit her lower lip, licked his tongue into her mouth then grinned around the kiss when she slid both of her hands hands to pull at his jeans. Walking backwards they bumped and stumbled through the dancers until they hit a wall. 

A wall that slid two achingly familiar hands around Stiles waist. He ground himself back and gasped as those hands pulled the nurse’s hands free.

“Sorry,” Stiles gasped and turned. Stile froze as Derek Hale, brick wall impersonator, turned him and shook his head at the near. “Wait. What the hell are you?”

Derek raised an eyebrow, ignoring the question and looking at the woman behind them. Stiles heard her stutter then nothing as Derek pulled him impossibly closer, naked chest against Derek’s ever present black shirt. 

“That was rude,” Stiles whispered and thanked God, and the whole Hale werewolf family, that he could whisper in the din of music and know Derek heard.

“No,” Derek growled against his jaw, “Rude is pulling a slutty nurse and trying to get lucky knowing I’d be here.”

Stiles laughed and angled his head to the side, “I didn’t know you were here. And she promised me a trick.” He paused and pinched Derek’s side, “With her tongue. Think you can do better?”

Derek didn’t answer. He tightened his grip on Stile’s waist and pulled them through an open door. Stiles leaned closer and scratched his nails over Derek’s chest. “I think she’d planned on blowing me, Derek. Right here in the club.” He moaned and arched his back when he felt Derek’s nails sharpen briefly. 

“I think, God, she wanted a nasty treat. Dark and dirty. Getting her pretty little naughty nurse mouth fucked by her very own angel to make things right.”

He felt Derek grind their bodies together and grinned when he felt Derek’s hard length between them. Wicked, wicked wolf, he thought, before Derek pushed him against the empty hallway wall and slid to his knees. 

“I have a trick or two,” Derek whispered against his belly, before biting and licking the path of Stiles’ zipper and jeans. 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the moment Stiles gave up pretense at seduction and decent exposure. The moment he gripped his fingers in Derek’s hair and begged. He could feel his wings pushing against the wall, their white feathers almost wrapping around Derek as Derek circled the head of his cock with his tongue.

“In fact,” Derek whispered, “I might know a treat as well.”

Stiles groaned as he felt the slick, wet heat of Derek’s mouth. Then cursed as he felt the slick, slide of claw against his thighs. He whimpered when Derek hitched one over his shoulder then everything went white.

“Love you,” he whispered, sliding against the wall and tasting himself against Derek’s tongue.

* * *

43\.   
**Warnings:** daddykink, underage, dubcon  
 **Pairing:** Chris/Isaac

His path has always been a shadowy one but till now it has been righteous. Now, the darkness is encroaching slowly and inexorably, grown stronger with every loss. Kate. Victoria. Allison.

He's lost the light in his life.

Except...

It is wrong. It should feel wrong. But the only time Chris feels anything at all is with Isaac. He could wax poetic about shared sorrow, justify it with being brought together by grief but he knows there's no excuse for the fact that the only time he feels alive is when he's fucking the boy who loved—loves?—his dead daughter.

With his blond curls and blue eyes Isaac looks pure, almost angelic, like butter wouldn't melt between his plump lips. But that sinful mouth hides a silver tongue, vicious and cruel or dripping honey at will—tongue now flicking out to moisten dry lips, "Daddy please...", an almost inaudible whisper.

Chris knows he shouldn't be proud, shouldn't find Isaac's layers of camouflage so appealing when he knows his ability to mold himself, to say all the right things was borne out of pain and blood, but he can't help it. Can't help brushing his lips against Isaac's sweaty curls, murmuring "Good boy..." as his fingers dip lower and press against the boy's slick pucker.

He wants to peel back every layer of artifice, every defensive reaction till there's nothing left but the light he once saw in Isaac. The light he chases now when he licks into the boy's mouth, chasing the taste of his own precome from when those lips were wrapped around his cock just moments ago.

"Daddy please I need-" Isaac's breath hitches and there's tears in his eyes when Chris pulls back.

Chris thinks he may be dragging Isaac down into the darkness with him as he slides two fingers in, the werewolf running hot still just as arresting as it had been the first time he slid in on spit and precome, egged on by rage and guilt and Isaac's all-encompassing need.

Isaac wails when the hunter strokes his prostate, his back bowing in a graceful arch ruined by the way his clawed fingers and toes scramble against the sheets, shredding the thick Egyptian cotton.

They were Victoria's. He should care but the sight is enough to force a groan from his lips. Isaac is all pale smooth skin and long lines, the bites and beard burn already faded.

Isaac's cock is an angry red, slapping wetly against the hard planes of his stomach. Chris knows the boy is close, knows Isaac can come just from the relentless pressure of Chris's fingers against his prostate, but that's not what he wants. It's not what either of them wants.

The noise Isaac makes when Chris pulls his fingers out of his wet hole is bereft and goes straight to the hunter's cock. He's achingly hard, despite the fact that he fucked the boy once already against the dirty brick wall of a Marseille alley stinking of fish.

There's come clinging to his fingers and he lifts his hand to Isaac's tear streaked face. It's obscene how eager the wolf is for a taste of him, licking and sucking on the digits.

Chris braces himself on his knees and pushes the boy's legs apart. They splay easily, wanton and trembling as he guides his leaking cock towards the slick reddened hole.

He's in balls deep with one smooth thrust and they both groan, Isaac's voice muffled by the fingers still pressed against his lips.

Chris pulls his hand away and grasps Isaac by the hair instead, fucking into his boy in earnest as Isaac's long legs wrap around his waist.

The long expanse of Isaac's neck begs for marks. Chris knows they'll heal but Isaac's scarves let him pretend, lend credence to the thought that underneath lay livid bruises from his hands and teeth.

Isaac comes when Chris bites down, body arching against the hunter as his come splatters wetly between them.

Chris swears, the rippling around his dick almost enough to drag him over the edge. He pulls back, expression grim.

"Did I say you could come?" He tightens his grip of Isaac's hair.

The wolf smiles, insolent gleam in his unearthly eyes. "Sorry Daddy," he drawls.

Chris's answering smile is grim. "You asked for it."

* * *

44\.   
**Warnings:** dubcon, possession, possibly disturbing imagery  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/nogitsune!Stiles

Lightning is the glide of the nogitsune’s fingers through his hair; lightning is the taste of its fingers in his mouth, pressing against his tongue. It’s the sound of its laugh in Stiles’s ear, the bite of its teeth upon his shoulder, the sting of an invisible knife against his throat.

Stiles isn’t scared, because the fear’s been bled out of him. He’s not angry, because his anger’s all used up. He’s not anything, really, except tired and impatient, reckless and burning up from the inside. Less thrilled about that last one, really, but the nogitsune’s been playing him like a fiddle for hours, it feels like, taunting him with that wicked smile Stiles shouldn’t know so well but does, familiar, slender fingers pushing all the right buttons, lighting him up brighter than a fourth of July fireworks show. 

“Don’t act like you aren’t enjoying yourself,” the nogitsune says lowly, voice amused, and it tightens its grip around Stiles’s hair so it can jerk his head back at a sharper angle, making his neck scream in protest. 

With its fingers his mouth, Stiles can only groan helplessly, inarticulately, and try to pull away. But even with only one hand keeping Stiles’s wrists trapped behind his back, he can’t get free, can’t stop the nogitsune from sliding its spit-slick touch down the bare, goosebumped flesh of his chest and stomach, trailing lower, lower, until its fingers and thumb are wrapped around the aching length of him.

“That’s a good boy,” it says, approvingly, but with such an undeniable note of mockery that Stiles forces out a huffed “Fuck you,” now that he can talk. Even as he bucks into the touch, lets the sharp upward cant of his hips ask for more, his mouth refuses to say what his body is saying, acknowledge what his mind already acknowledged a long time ago, that there’s no use pretending he isn’t already caught, hook, line, and sinker.

The slow up-down stroke of the nogitsune’s hand--Stiles’s hand, there’s no telling the difference--sends sparks shooting through his veins; a moment later, when the nogitsune pushes him down, shoves Stiles backward onto the bed and slithers down his body, his thighs actually shake with sick anticipation. 

He wants to turn himself inside out as the impossible wet heat of the nogitsune’s mouth wraps around the head of his cock, and Stiles arches so hard his body bows right up off the mattress. He claws at his bedsheets, pulls at them hard enough to tear them to ribbons, but maybe sheets don’t rip in dreams; maybe that only happens to people, to weak teenage boys who can’t say no to a pair of clever brown eyes and a soft, willing mouth, even if that mouth belongs to someone who looks just like him and destroys everything it could possibly touch, everything within reach. 

Stiles knows, from personal experience, that’s quite a lot. In daylight, it’s hard to imagine just how dark the night can get, but it reaches into all the little corners, finds every nook and cranny. There’s no secret part of him left; everything’s in the shadows now.

“C’mon, please,” he begs, thinking he means “stop,” but both he and the nogitsune know better. They’re both liars, in their own way, and Stiles can’t forget he was the one who opened the first door and beckoned the darkness in. When he frees one of his hands and finds the top of the nogitsune’s head of messy brown hair, his fingers only tighten to hold on, not push away. He fucks up into that willing mouth until he can’t remember wanting anything else, until he loses the last bright parts of him.

The sun went down a long time ago, is the thing--slipped right on past the horizon while Stiles wasn’t looking. He just opened his eyes and discovered night had come. It’d been impossible to find his own two hands in the darkness, at first, but given enough time, he can adjust to just about anything. Given enough time, he almost forgets he can’t see at all.

* * *

45\.   
**Warnings:** Brief thoughts of suicide  
 **Pairing:** ???/Stiles

Much is said about Stiles's lack of sight, but there's little that can be done. Doctors are useless. Deaton is stumped. Scott offers him the bite but he doesn't take it. He doesn't want to be another Deucalion, trapped in a world of black and red. School is a challenge like it never was before and he relies on others to help him through when he's used to being the one relied on. He's used to being the smart one but smarts don't matter when he can't see the danger right in front of him. He's been sidelined permanently and his utter uselessness makes him want to step out into traffic and end it now.

It's the touches that keep him going.

His dad's hand on his shoulder, waking him up, leading him to the bathroom until he learns the way on his own. A guiding touch at breakfast. Their fingers brush as his dad places a fork in his hand. They hug every day, always, before Stiles goes to school and when he gets home. He never comes home to an empty house now.

As soon as he gets out of his dad's cruiser, there's a hand in his. The size and shape of it changes daily. He's beginning to be able to differentiate Lydia's soft, tiny hands from Boyd's calloused and large hands. They hold his hand between classes, leading the way, guiding him safely from place to place. There's always someone there for him. Always.

In the dark of night, when his dad has left for his night shift, after much promises that he's only a phone call away, that he'll be home in an instant if Stiles needs anything, then come the touches that mean the most to him.

There's a sudden burst of cold air and the scrape of wood on wood as the window is opened. Heavy boots thud on the floor and are kicked off moments later. Hands find him, warm and gentle. Lips follow. Stiles leans into it, desperate for contact, for the warmth of another body pressed against his own. He grasps rough fabric, runs his hands over it before discarding it, shoving it off into the dark void.

There are no words. They don't need any. Lips talk just as well without sound and it's the feeling that Stiles craves, the wet slide of skin on skin. He opens his mouth for a tongue to plunge in, forceful and direct. They both want.

Stiles takes two steps to his bed. He pulls and is followed. A heavy weight settles over him and it's almost like being able to see again. He can feel the contours of the body above him, the way they fit together piece by piece. Muscled legs line up against his skinny and frail ones. Strong arms press down into the mattress on either side of his head. Insistent lips kiss him over and over again, their meetings and partings growing longer, deeper, more frantic as hips align.

Stiles revels is the slide of fingers inside of him, slick and sudden. They stretch him, opening him up for a much bigger intrusion and when that intrusion comes he sighs into the burn of it. Their bodies are connected and he feels whole for the first time that day. He feels complete. Then their hips start to move and his lack of sight doesn't matter. He doesn't need to see to feel like he's flying, like he's coming unwound and all the tension he's been holding inside all day is drawn out of him.

Afterwards they lay together and sleep until the birds start to sing and his dad's cruiser rumbles into the driveway. One last kiss before they leave out the window and Stiles says nothing, afraid he might say the wrong name.

* * *

46\.   
**Warnings:** none  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/Derek

“This has to be punishment,” Stiles mumbled into the space between Derek's neck and shoulder. They were pressed together from head to toe with an inch left for breathing, in a storage closet after hours. A manticore paced back and forth on the other side of the door. Stiles could hear the heavy, acidic breath he'd felt when the thing had been about to bite his head off.

Derek hummed noncommittally.

Stiles rolled his eyes, never mind that his face was mashed against Derek in the pitch black. “Seriously, you think we're cursed? I don't know why this keeps happening to us.”

“Karma is a dick.”

Stiles snorted. “Whatever you did in a past life to deserve this, I hope it was worth it.”

Derek sighed. “You realize you're not actually the worst thing that ever happened to me, right?”

Stiles flushed with embarrassment, glad that they couldn't see each other. “Sorry, yeah. I guess magical harassment like this barely registers considering your history.” Stiles was the only one who dared to bring up Derek's past anymore. Everyone else liked to pretend the not-so-sour wolf had magically appeared after Cora had gone back to Argentina. (Heh.)

“It's not a curse, Stiles.” Derek had that exasperated, playful tone of voice that he reserved solely for Stiles.

The proximity and the idea of Derek's wicked little grin were slowly getting to Stiles and he tried to shift positions so his junk wasn't pressed right against the hollow of Derek's hip. It was obscene how good it felt, how well he fit there. Like he belonged.

“Stop squirming!”

“I can't help it and unless you want to be much, much better acquainted with Not-So-Little-Stiles you're going to have to give me some room to move.”

Derek froze.

Stiles sighed. “Would you look at that? Problem solved itself.” Derek's reaction had deflated him thoroughly. “I'm done with this entire situation. I'm this close to going out there and fighting the thing myself so I can hide in my room forever after.”

Stiles made a grab for the door handle that was somewhere near his kidneys, but Derek stopped him. With a hug.

“Don't.”

Stiles blinked, never more desperate to actually see Derek's face. “What? Derek, what is happening right now?”

Derek let out a low sound, something between a growl and a whine, and nuzzled Stiles' neck. The sensation was heightened in the darkness, filling Stiles with an awareness of all the places they touched. Stiles' knees were knocking against Derek's, their shoulders collided when one of them tried to move, and their hips were pressed together in the worst/best possible way.

“You're going to have to talk to me, buddy.” Stiles relaxed into the heat all along his front. Derek rubbed his face on Stiles' neck. “Shit, that feels amazing. Keep going. I- it's okay. I want you to touch me anywhere you like.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, but if he was going to complain he forgot about it in favor of pressing soft, barely there kisses to Stiles' skin.

Stiles squirmed, managing to get his arm wedged between them. He trailed his fingertips along the exposed skin between Derek's waistband and his shirt. “I want to touch you everywhere. Is that okay? What do you want?”

“Just... you.” Derek kissed him then, the dark turning it into a surprise assault, a wave of heat and pressure and slick. Stiles opened his mouth with a groan, letting Derek in like a drowning man let in the water in the end. Inevitable.

“God,” Stiles managed between kisses. “You're so amazing. We should have been doing this forever.” He freed Derek's cock one-handed, blind, mind hazy with horniness.

Derek's hands had somehow found their way to Stiles' ass, squeezing in a counterpoint rhythm to the movements of Derek's hips as he fucked into the circle made by Stiles' fingers. “I want to see you.”

“Me too,” Stiles gasped rutting against Derek's hip. “So much. We can do it with all the lights on next time, promise.”

Derek came. When Stiles felt the hot semen spill over his fingers, he couldn't hold back. He thrust harder against Derek and nearly whited out with pleasure.

“Uh,” Derek said, still a little dazed. “Did you just-”

Stiles had. His spark had gone haywire, turning the little closet into a cathedral of fairy lights. It looked like christmas had thrown up all over it.

When their eyes met, they both started laughing.

* * *

47\.   
**Warnings:** none   
**Pairing:** Scott/Stiles 

Scott sneaks into Stiles' bed at night six times in two weeks before Stiles is forced to reluctantly admit that there may be a pattern here. Not that he minds Scott in his bed, because it's been kind of cold lately and Scott's always been warm to cuddle with. 

But after the last time Scott comes down with him for breakfast, Stiles catches his dad tossing his room for condoms and is forced to sit through an excruciatingly painful conversation about why it is important to practice safe sex even with boys.

"We weren't having sex, Dad," Stiles interrupts before he spontaneously combusts from embarrassment. "It's just --" he doesn't want to come out and say it, because even thinking too closely about the new hole in their lives makes him feel hollow and lost, so he just ends with, "It's been a rough week. A rough month. A rough everything. You know?"

His dad sighs. He drags a hand heavily over his face. "Yeah, kiddo," he says and leans in to hug Stiles tight. "I know. And of course Scott's always welcome in the house. Even if he _is_ despoiling my son."

So in a sense, what happens next is his dad's fault.

\--

Stiles wakes groggily to the feel of Scott's stubble scratching his shoulder. He flails halfheartedly behind him with his elbow. "Nnngggghhh," he complains. The sky is just beginning to lighten when he cracks open an eye. Too early to get up he decides, and closes his eye again.

Scott makes a grumbly noise. He readjusts himself so that his face isn't scratching Stiles. Both his arms are around Stiles, holding him. They tighten for a moment and Scott inhales deeply. He mumbles something into the back of Stiles' shoulder.

"What?"

"I miss her."

"Me too."

Scott's hand fists into Stiles' shirt. "I don't want you to die."

"I don't want me to die either," Stiles says, but his voice sounds weird as he says it and it doesn't sound as much like a joke when he says it out loud. He rolls over to look at Scott and he's surprised by how close Scott's face is, just a breath away.

Scott kisses him.

They've done this before. He and Scott were each other's first kisses and first times. And even though Stiles is pretty sure he'll never be _in love_ with Scott, Stiles still loves him, quietly and fiercely.

Scott kisses him and Stiles kisses back, open and relaxed and reluctant to lose the last of the sleepiness that makes everything feel halfway like a dream. He laughs a little. "I told my dad we weren't having sex," he says.

Scott pauses. His hand, which had been previously edging up Stiles' leg and towards his dick, stops. "Do you want to stop?"

"Nah," Stiles replies and brings his mouth to Scott's again. "He didn't believe me anyways."

They make out for a while until Stiles' mouth feels bruised and tender. He lets his eyes fall shut. Scott doesn't smell like the woods like he normally does. He smells like Stiles' shampoo. He's hard. They both are.

Scott licks him on the cheek. "You sleepy?"

Stiles arches his back to stretch it. "A little," he admits, "I like it. S'nice. Peaceful." He likes waking up during the quiet blue hour before the sun rises, where the sleepiness keeps him from feeling too twitchy and he doesn't have to _do_ anything, can just go back to sleep.

Scott sucks him off under the covers and Stiles returns the favor by spreading his legs and letting Scott rub himself off against his inner thigh, murmuring soft encouragement ("Yeah, Scott, c'mon, like that, yeah, Scotty").

They wipe themselves off with wet wipes from the secret stash Stiles has under his bed, then tangle together beneath the blankets again. Stiles gets to be big spoon this time.

Scott nudges him just as he's about to fall asleep again. "Hey, Stiles."

"Hmm?"

"The sun's coming up."

Stiles opens his eyes just in time to watch the first rays of golden light spill into his room.

* * *

48\.   
**Warnings:** serial killer au,   
**Pairing:** Allison/Lydia

Lydia spread her legs and licked her lips as she stared up at the man above her. His dark eyes were filled with lust, and his dirty hands touched every part of her. It was a wonderful sight, to see someone so unaware of what was to come. 

She ran her fingers down his chest and expertly undid his belt before slowly unzipping his pants. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement and smiled. The man didn’t notice. He wouldn’t have been able. No one ever did. 

Quick as the flash, a rope wrapped around the man’s neck and he gasped eyes going wide as he tried to struggle. It was useless of course; Allison was too strong, too skilled. Lydia moved to sit up, and the target stared at her in shock and fear. She cupped his jaw, rubbing her thumb along his lips as he struggled to breathe. “This is what you get for hurting little girls.”

The target went limp as Allison tightened the rope. Lydia looked up at Allison, smiling and feeling herself becoming aroused as she watched Allison work. Allison leaned over the target’s shoulder and gave Lydia a kiss. “I’ll take care of the trash.” 

Allison left to dispose of their latest target, and when she came back, she found Lydia lying on the hotel bed, her legs spread and two fingers already pumping inside of her. Allison smiled and moved onto the bed. She leaned over her and gave her a kiss, running a hand down Lydia’s chest and cupping her breast, still covered in red lace. “You did good tonight, Lydia.”

Lydia smiled, using her free hand to pull Allison down for another kiss. “We both did, and we looked amazing doing it.”

Allison moved down Lydia’s front, pressing kisses along Lydia’s chest. She unhooked Lydia’s bra and tossed it aside, before sucking on one nipple as one hand moved down to play with Lydia’s clit. Lydia moaned and bucked into the touch. “Fuck, Allison!” 

Allison continued to move down, pressing kisses along Lydia’s stomach before replacing the fingers inside of Lydia with her tongue. Lydia gasped, pressing her legs against Allison’s head to keep her still. She knew it wouldn’t really stop Allison. The same hands that touched her so lovingly were the same ones Lydia watched Allison use to kill. 

Lydia had been a target, one that Allison couldn’t kill. Allison had tried so hard, had Lydia tied to a chair and an arrow pointed at her heart, but she couldn’t do it. Allison had fallen for her target and Lydia had fallen for her.

Now they hunted together, killings those who had wronged others. Lydia’s blood innocence lost when she strangled the man who turned Allison into the killer she was. 

Lydia ran her fingers through Allison’s hair and grabbing a handful. Allison slipped a finger in with her tongue, finding her g-spot and rubbing it. Lydia nearly shouted and bucked up against Allison’s mouth, her moans getting louder and louder as she spiraled closer to the edge. 

Allison’s other hand rubbed Lydia’s clit adding to the pleasure she was feeling. It was overwhelming and Lydia screamed out Allison’s name a few seconds later as her orgasm ripped through her. Allison didn’t stop pleasuring her even as Lydia’s body shook. Lydia gave a gentle push to Allison’s shoulder and the woman sat up, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. 

Lydia got into Allison’s lap and easily slipped two fingers in Allison, quickly bringing her off. As they collapsed to the bed, Lydia laughed. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of the sight you holding someone’s life in your hands,” Lydia said, she turned towards Allison and kissed her, tasting herself on the hunter’s lips. “I love you, Allison.”

“I love you too,” Allison said, stroking a hand through Lydia’s hair and smiling. “I think our next job, I’ll let you end their life."

* * *


	3. Group C (with warnings)

49.  
 **Warnings: None**  
 **Pairing: Scallison**

While the light still shone, Allison kept her feathers to the breeze, her sharp eyes cast down to watch him as he navigated the rocky terrain. Beside him labored the traveler that had attached himself to them, though she was too far up to hear if they spoke. She didn't want to hear them; it only reminded her of everything she couldn't have as long as the curse still bound them.

It hadn't always been this way. She'd been a woman once, a flesh-and-blood, pale-skinned human, and she had loved him. She loved him still.

She veered away from them, tasking herself with watching the path ahead instead. If she thought for too long about how things used to be, she would get caught up in the memories. She would get caught up in the feel of his hands sliding over her skin, cupping her breasts, touching her face like she was made of glass he dare not break. She would get caught in the taste of his kisses, and the soft murmur of his voice beside her ear as he moved within her.

Folding her wings, she let herself free-fall, her belly swooping as the ground raced toward her. All thought fled from her mind for just a moment, until she opened her wings and broke the descent.  
No, she couldn't lose herself in imagining what used to be. Not now. Not until Peter's blood was hot on her hands and his curse upon them only a fading memory.

\-------

Scott knew that darkness was rolling in, but he couldn't bear to take his eyes from her feathered form to watch the dusk's arrival. He knew what it heralded; he could feel the wolf clawing at his insides, waiting for its chance to take over. When the light began to fade from the world, she would come down from the sky and take to the ground with them once more.

For just a moment, just the flicker of time between light and dark, they would both be human. For just a moment, he could touch his fingers to her soft cheek, whisper her name like a prayer. For the span of _I love you_ he could press his lips to hers, and then it would be over. Just a moment, and then he would be the animal, and she, the human.

Where once he had so treasured it, he had come to hate the night. It no longer held time alone with her, curled around her with nothing between them. It was no longer the feel of her palms down his back, or the catch of her breath, or the clutch of her fingers on his arms as she fell apart around him.

Now he slept beside her as a dark wolf, her fingers curled in his pelt and her tears wet on his fur. She missed him just as much as he missed her. She was right there, he was right beside her, and yet a thousand miles may as well separate them.

He holds his arm aloft as the last rays of sunlight begin to hide behind the horizon, and waits for her arrival. Above him, he sees her fold her wings to come back to him.

He will kill Peter, he thinks, and he will not feel regret as long as she is with him again.

* * *

50.  
 **Warnings:** (mild) gag play  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

“You’re not supposed to wear _all_ the colors,” Derek said when Stiles showed up to the stoplight party with green pants, a yellow shirt with a red patch on the chest and a yellow headband that made him look like he was working out in an 80s music video. 

“This is a science,” was all Stiles said.

“You know the yellow stands for ‘it’s complicated’, right?”

“Figured I’d be more specific.” 

“Your pants are hideous.”

Grinning, Stiles looked down. “The green is for go. My pants area is all ready.” 

Derek watched him throw himself into the crowd of dancers in the living room of the huge house of whoever was hosting this stupidity. He looked even more ridiculous then, as he rolled his hips against the guy pressed to his back. The hideous green pants were impossible to ignore even in the sea of green, red and yellow. 

Stiles was throwing his head back and laughing, the stupid yellow headband nearly slipping off his head. 

Naturally, the whole thing ended with Derek trapping Stiles against the sink in the bathroom, cock buried deep. Without their ugly yellow shirts, Stiles’ skin was hot as it stuck to Derek’s. 

He leaned his forehead against Stiles’ naked shoulder, breathing hard as he dug his fingers into Stiles’ hips. He hadn’t prepared for any of this. The strange feeling in his stomach when he saw Stiles roll his hips up against someone else’s crotch – that weird mix of want and jealousy – had taken him by surprise. And he sure as hell wasn’t prepared for how overwhelming it was to fuck up into Stiles’ ass, punching little breathy moans out of him. 

Looking up, he saw their reflection, all of Stiles wonderfully on display. Stiles was watching too, eyes turned downward, fascinated by his own cock where it bounced with every thrust. And then his gaze moved upwards, meeting Derek’s in the mirror. His cheeks were blotchy red and his mouth swollen from kissing and taking the girth of Derek’s cock. 

Stiles groaned, his eyes closing, and he pushed himself back onto Derek with little circles of his hips. The sounds coming from his mouth, unintelligible as they were, were getting louder and less controlled, and they were fucking amazing. Shit, Derek was so fucking relieved he was the one stuffing Stiles’ ass full of his cock and not that other idiot. He nipped at Stiles’ neck, tasting the skin. 

The headband had started to come off. Derek was offended by its entire existence. 

“Why are you even wearing this thing?” He said, slipping two fingers under it. 

“Even if my pants say yes, my head might say no.” Stiles’ paused to release a shuddering breath. “Standards, Derek.” The last syllable of Derek's name went all shaky.

Derek rolled his eyes and pulled the band down until it slipped and settled against Stiles’ mouth. Urging Stiles’ lips open with two fingers, Derek pressed the headband between them and pulled slightly at the back, making it tighter. 

It was too elastic to be a gag, but it was enough of an imitation to make his dick pulse and he slammed his hips forward a bit too hard. Stiles had to catch himself with his hand, and he looked into the mirror, finding Derek’s eyes. 

Stiles bit down on the headband, groaning into it, the sound slightly muffled. 

“’ou a’hole,” Stiles said, even as he pressed his hand over the arm Derek had slung around his waist. 

In retaliation, Derek pulled at the back of the headband, exposing the long line of Stiles neck. Stiles whined and he spread his legs wider. 

“Fucking perfect,” Derek muttered into his neck. 

He pressed Stiles against him as he slammed into him until the pressure burst inside, and he stilled deep inside Stiles, coming as his legs shook. Stiles had his hand on his own cock and Derek watched him in the mirror, nerves still singing, as Stiles pushed up into his own hand. Stiles went still when he came, come hitting the mirror, and his head dropped forward.

\---

“Why the red patch?” Derek asked when Stiles bent to pick up his shirt.

Stiles looked up, a bit taken aback, and then a smile spread on his lips. He moved closer and ran his hand over Derek’s chest. 

“Cause my heart’s taken,” he said and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Derek’s neck.

* * *

51.

 **Pairing:** Stiles/Derek, Derek/Kate  
 **Warnings:** Underage, obligatory Kate Argent warning :)

**Then.**

The woman cut through the crowd of teenaged girls surrounding Derek like sunlight through a cloud. Heat unfurled in Derek’s stomach at the predatory sway of her hips, the pheromones crackling in the air around her. 

“Hi, handsome,” she said, elbowing a cheerleader aside so she could touch Derek’s sweaty bicep. Leaning close, she whispered in his ear, “Isn't putting a werewolf on a high school basketball team like bringing a flamethrower to a water gun fight?" 

He sputtered, throwing a terrified glance at the crowd around him.

She laughed. "Don't worry, sweetie. None of these pretty young things has any idea what I’m talking about!" Winking, she handed him a business card. _Kate Argent,_ it said. _Sales and Distribution_. "Call me when you get tired of playing these kids' games."

They went driving in Kate’s Mustang with the top rolled down, her hair gleaming in the sun. She squeezed Derek’s knee when she changed gears, and his heart tripped with excitement. That afternoon, she rode him in the backseat until Derek’s whole world exploded into blinding light.

**Now.**

Stiles shows up at the loft after midnight. Derek’s only bothered to turn his bedside lamp on, and Stiles is all pale skin and bright eyes in the darkness.

"Heard I got you arrested again,” Stiles says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry."

"That wasn't you.”

Stiles glances away, fingers tugging the seams of his jeans. Watching him fidget, Derek realizes how _still_ the Nogitsune had been in Stiles’s body.

Derek steps closer, crowds Stiles back against the wall, like he had when Stiles was just Scott’s annoying friend. “That wasn’t you,” Derek repeats, catching Stiles’s gaze and holding it. "Don’t blame yourself."

The laugh Stiles chokes out sounds more like a sob. His hands come up, like he’s going to push Derek away. Instead they clench into the worn cotton of his Henley. Derek recognizes too well the scents of misery and shame seeping from Stiles’s pores. He acts on instinct, crushing Stiles to his chest. Shuddering, Stiles buries his wet face in Derek’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into Derek’s skin. “So sorry. For all of it.”

"I know." Swallowing hard, Derek presses his mouth to the top of Stiles's head, runs soothing hands up and down his knobby spine. "Believe me," he whispers, "I know."

He doesn’t mean to start anything when he moves his lips from Stiles’s hair to his forehead. But Stiles leans into the touch, hands slipping under Derek's shirt. Derek kisses his cheek, and Stiles turns his head, catches Derek’s mouth in his. From there it’s frantic, hands shoving fabric aside and working buttons open.

"We shouldn't do this," Derek groans, even as he’s lining their cocks up in his hand. They’re both wet, slick with pre-come.

Stiles shakes his head, gripping Derek’s shoulders like he’s afraid he’ll get away. "Yes, we should! Fuck, I need this, Derek! Need you!”

If Stiles needs to lose himself in sex, Derek reasons, at least this is with someone who cares about him. Derek makes it good, using Stiles’s scent, his hungry, muffled groans, to guide his strokes. Stiles clings to Derek when he comes, pressing wet kisses to the point of his jaw, his neck,his shoulder. Still shuddering, he pulls away, sinking to his knees before Derek.

“You don’t have to--” 

“ _Let_ me!” Stiles says, guiding Derek’s cock into the wet heat of his mouth. As he suckles at the head, Stiles’s eyes flutter shut, face going calm, peaceful. He’s inexperienced, clumsy, but the sweet smell of contentment rising from his skin electrifies Derek. He’s grateful, suddenly, for his supernatural night vision. Stiles’s lips stretched around his cock are the best thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“Don’t stop,” he groans, hating how raw his voice sounds. Stiles makes a noise of agreement around him, the vibration going straight to Derek’s toes.

When Derek comes, Stiles shudders through it with him, though his dick lies spent against his jeans. His eyes are damp when he pulls away, lips swollen, glistening with come. He rests his forehead on Derek’s thigh.

For a long moment, neither speaks. The silent darkness feels comforting, thick like a blanket.

“Stay?” Derek offers at last.

Nodding, Stiles lets Derek help him to his feet.

> What hope we have lies there . . . Not in the light that blinds, but in the dark that nourishes . . . (Ursula K. LeGuin)

* * *

52.  
 **Warnings:** Off-Screen Character Death, but not of main pairing  
 **Pairing:** Jackson/Lydia

A solar flare ripped through the world and heralded the end like a klaxon in the dark. A global EMP combined with a thousand nuclear weapons couldn’t have done them in as efficiently as a random solar storm. Now, sitting around a campfire in the unsurprisingly unaffected Beacon Hills Preserve, Lydia Martin takes a moment from the frantic daily ritual of survival and loss to breathe. 

She looks across the flames at Stiles, unnervingly subdued in Derek’s arms after the Sheriff and Scott.... She looks at Melissa McCall’s dirty, tearless face and Peter Hale’s impassive, unchanging expression and doesn’t think anything at all. Her throat is sore and her emotional well has run dry. She doesn’t spare a thought of how unfair their lives are or how different her life would be if the flare hadn’t hit earth. She’s too much of a mathematician to scoff at the odds and resent them. Armageddon, however unlikely, was always in the deck of cards.

A branch in the fire pops and Derek straightens and sniffs the air. Lydia knows he’s heard something in the forest, but he hasn’t tightened his hold around Stiles, so she tries to keep the simmering instinct to fight or flight at bay. She thinks she sees the hint of a smile on his face, but in the dark she can’t be sure. 

A few minutes later a large grey wolf walks into their clearing and she _knows that wolf_. Would recognize him anywhere. She scarcely believes it, wonders if she’s finally snapped, but a quick glance at Derek confirms her deductions. “Jackson.” The word slips out before she realizes she’s spoken and seconds later he’s naked and warm against her, his arms tight and unyielding around her. 

“I had to find you. If anyone could survive this mess of a thing, it would be you,” he says in her ear. His voice is rough and untethered in a way it’s never been before and she shivers against him. 

“Jackson.” She keeps repeating his name, touching him, because she still can’t believe he’s here. His scent and the stubble grazing her cheek is warm and familiar, and for the first time since The Day, she’s happy. Elated, even, because she hadn’t even bothered to dream that it could happen. It was too mathematically impossible. 

She doesn’t ask any of the million questions racing in her brain, doesn’t even care as his arms tighten around her and makes her feel safe. She wants the world to fade away and for him to hold her close like he used to. She has enough sense to tug him away from the fire to a copse near their supplies. Before he can say anything else she tugs him down to her and kisses him. 

Kisses him like their world isn’t on fire and like they’ve been in love for a thousand years instead of ten. His hands that bracket her hips are as strong and sure as they ever were and suddenly the empty part of her heart that she’s carefully ignored ignites as he slots back into her soul like he never left. 

He’s hard against her abdomen, his mouth firm and predatory. “Jacks--...” He steals her breath and she moans, biting his lip and granting silent permission. He lifts her against the truck of the closest tree and braces her with his hands on the back of her thighs. He fits even better between her legs than he did when they were younger and when he pushes her knickers to the side and slides inside her, she feels like she could set off a flare of her own. 

“Lyds,” he whispers. He tempers his thrusts and _cherishes_ her with his every touch, and in that moment her love for him is infinite and unending. The world’s gone to shit, but if she can have this, him, then she thinks she might be okay. 

“Jackson, I...” 

“I know.” And he takes her words with his lips and fingers her clit until she’s a writing mess in her arms and coming. He stills against her and pulls out, finishing himself with his fist.

“You came back.” 

He looks at her from under his lashes cradles her head in his hands. “Lydia, there’s no way I’m facing this mess without you by my side.” 

She bites back the knee-jerk sarcastic comment to make light of the moment, and instead smiles and kisses his nose. “I missed you.”

* * *

53.

 **Warnings:** implied torture  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles 

#### Lucid

"What do you hear?" Stiles presses his palms to Derek's cheeks and stares into his eyes. "Sound, smell, anything. We're so close, but we need your help."

Sunlight spills bright over the bed where they lie tangled in white sheets. Derek laughs and turns his head to press a kiss to Stiles' palm. "I hear your heartbeat. I smell..." He inhales through his nose, filling himself with the scent of sex. "I'm on your skin, everywhere."

Derek pushes Stiles down, tugs the sheet from between them as he nudges Stiles' legs apart. "It's strongest here." He presses his face into Stiles' perfect ass, licks at his hole. It's hot, leaking Derek's come. "You taste so good."

Stiles sighs, even as he arches back. "Not here," he whispers. "Damn it, Derek. Not here."

~

He's in a place of perfect darkness. Damp and warm, moss grows on the boards beneath his fingers. He scratches at it, a line for every time she comes. He counts them when she's gone, fingertips sliding across the floor like a blind man.

Open wounds and hunger make him weak. He gets lost at eighty-something and gives up, lets himself sink into unconsciousness.

~

"You're not in California," Stiles says. "But she left a trail. We think she went South."

The loft windows paint squares of light on everything. Derek peels away Stiles' shirt to expose pale flesh turned gold from the sun. "You should never wear clothes."

"Focus, Derek. We're trying to find you." Stiles sighs. "You're happy here."

"Because _you're_ here." Derek leans in to press his lips to Stiles' mouth. "I love you."

"You love me?" Stiles pulls back, looks into Derek's eyes. He's smiling, but there's a hint of sadness there.

Derek nods. "Never leave, Stiles. I hate it when you go."

"Hold on," Stiles says. "Don't give up. We're coming."

~

The pain is terrible, but his voice died long ago and now he can't even scream. He knows it'll be over soon, he can't last much longer.

Soon he'll beg for it. Right now all he wants is a chance to say goodbye.

~

" _Stiles_." Derek's breath hitches, voice breaking as he twists his hips to drive himself deeper into Stiles' body. His cheeks are wet, and a tear falls onto Stiles' chest and shines in the light from the window.

Stiles' eyes roll back in his head. His skin is flushed, and he gasps for breath as his cock leaks on his belly. His legs shake as they bracket Derek's hips and his palm flies up to press against Derek's chest. He starts to come, his body squeezing Derek's cock in rolling spasms.

Derek drops his eyes, counts fingers, and wishes this were real.

"Come on," Stiles says. "Come inside me."

If Derek had his wish, he'd stay with Stiles forever, but he's had more here than he ever had the right to ask for. "Thank you," he says, as everything he is pours into the body of the boy beneath him.

They lie in the sunlight after, tangled in the sheets. "We found you," Stiles whispers as his fingers play in Derek's hair. "It's time for me to go."

Derek chokes on tears and wonders why his mind still feeds him exactly what he wants to hear. "Goodbye," he says, and leans in for one last kiss.

~

Derek stares into the darkness. Tears wet his cheeks here as well, but he's long past caring.

The grinding crunch of the door heralds his death. He won't sleep again. He won't see Stiles again, and that thought cues a fresh flood of grief.

"Finish it," he rasps.

He waits for her taunts. They don't come. He waits for the pain. He expects his flesh to tear, instead, gentle fingers card through his hair.

"I'm here," Stiles says. "I've got you."

Someone breaks the chains that held him for so long. They bring a light that hurts his eyes. Stiles kisses him, kisses his chapped lips and sunken cheeks. "This isn't real," Derek says.

"It's real." Stiles taps his fingers against Derek's palm, one at a time.

"Then why are you kissing me?"

Stiles chuckles softly. It's the most beautiful sound Derek's ever heard. "Those days in the loft, with the sun shining in the windows? I was there. I've been with you the whole time."

* * *

54.  
 **Warnings:** angst  
 **Pairing:** Scott/Isaac

The light is practically blinding. It’s the only thing Scott can see. The brightness, the way it sparkles reminds him of the Fourth of July. 

Scott falls to his knees as a pungent strong odor hits his nostrils. The light starts to fade and he can see a terrified Stiles, Allison, and Lydia looking back at him. His hand starts to hurt as he feels something hot and heavy in his hands.

A feeling of terrible dread and confusion and misery wash over him. The light around him is blinding him again. It stings worse than the gasoline. He wants the light to stop. He wants everything to stop. He wants the darkness to consume him.

Suddenly, there’s a massive explosion. He cowers, burrowing his head in his lap and covering his ears. After a few moments, he looks up and his stomach drops.

Stiles is laying motionless on the ground. Scott crawls over to his best friend - his brother. Stiles’ eyes are open, but the light is gone from them. 

Scott’s eyes fly open as he cries out. It takes him a few moments before he realizes that someone is sitting next to him.

“Scott!”

Scott blinks up at Isaac. “Isaac?” He says shakily. He still feels like he can’t breathe. He clutches at his chest and gulps for air. It feels like an asthma attack coming on - the tightness in his chest and fighting for every breath. But he knows that’s over now. 

As if reading his mind, Isaac repeats the phrase. “It’s over now. The nightmare’s over.”

Scott shakes his head as he slowly sits up. “It’s not. It’s not over. I can’t stop thinking about that night...at the hotel. I keep seeing it. I almost…”

“But you didn’t.” Isaac says strongly. “You never would have.”

Slowly, Scott puts his hands down. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well, I do. Something was else was controlling you.”

Scott looked up at Isaac. “If Stiles had died that night, I wouldn’t have needed anyone to tell me to kill myself.”

Isaac’s breath hitches, but he recovers quickly. “But he’s okay.”

“For how long?” Scott is tired of living in denial. “Boyd is dead, Isaac. I couldn’t stop that. Everything is on me. Deaton tells me that I’m destined to be this great hero and I can’t do it!”

Isaac’s eyes widen and he looks frightened as the tears fall from Scott’s eyes.

“This is too much! I feel I can’t breathe, Isaac. I can’t take the idea of making the wrong move and hurting somebody else that I love. I can’t take it!” 

Isaac hugs him fiercely. Scott buries his face in Isaac’s chest.

“I can’t stop thinking about that night. I can’t stop seeing Stiles dead. I can’t stop, I can’t stop…”

Isaac pulls back and cradles Scott’s head in his hands. “Please, Scott tell me what to do. I want to help you. Please…”

Scott takes a few deep breaths as he looks into Isaac’s earnest eyes. The next thing he knows, he leans over and kisses Isaac.

It’s just a quick peck, but it feels right. He goes in for another kiss, and Isaac moves back.

“Wait…” Isaac says weakly. “Think about this.”

“No. I’m not thinking anymore. Not tonight.” He goes in for another kiss.

Isaac climbs fully onto the bed. Scott cards his fingers through Isaac’s hair and gently licks at Isaac’s mouth. All thoughts but want, need, take fly out of his head.

Isaac moans and presses Scott back against the bed. As Isaac slowly crawls down his body, placing gentle nips along every bit of exposed skin he can find, Scott writhes on the bed. When Isaac gets to Scott’s length, he slowly takes him in his mouth.

Scott gasps. 

Isaac takes him all the way down to the root. He slides almost all the way off, before diving back down, his nose resting in Scott’s pubes. He increases the speed. 

Soon, Scott comes so hard he can hear the bed rattle. 

When his shuddering stops, he can feel Isaac begin to rut against his leg and it doesn’t take long before Isaac comes with Scott’s name on his lips.

He rests his full length against Scott’s back and puts his arms around him. Scott sighs and puts his hand on top of Isaac’s arms and feels more at peace than he has in a long time.

“Scott?”

Scott turns his head to look at Isaac. “Yeah?”

“I promise that you’re not alone.” Isaac kisses him softly. “Got it?”

Scott nods. He is starting to believe that there is light at the end of the tunnel and maybe it doesn’t have to be so painful.

* * *

55.  
 **Warnings:** n/a  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Jennifer

Derek can't explain himself.

He can't explain the draw - can't justify his need to be there, now, with her. He knows all too well what she is. He's seen her face, has heard the stories and seen firsthand the way her jealousy and resentment has twisted and turned into something deadly. He knows her signs, her tells. Her evils. He knows that, right now, he should be anywhere but there.

But the way her back arches, the way her thighs press more firmly against his head as she groans... it's intoxicating.

She's intoxicating, and he can't stop himself from drinking her in more.

"Derek," she gasps, her hips rocking upwards, almost grinding into his face. "Oh my god, Derek..."

He groans in return and pushes a third finger inside of her. "Jen..."

He's murmuring against her cunt as he eats her out, fingers fucking her steadily while his tongue runs over her folds. He's painfully hard in his jeans but he's trying to block it all out - all he wants, in this moment, is her.

Right then, Jennifer is all that matters.

He knows what his friends would say. He knows that she's dangerous, that he's setting back all their hard work every time he finds her at her apartment. But somehow, he can't stop.

He doesn't want to stop.

"More, fuck," she gasps, fingers twining into his hair, and he flicks his tongue over her clit. The sharp, surprised moan makes him shiver. She sounds like no woman he's ever heard - he hears her, long after he's left her, and he's fallen asleep too many times with come on his belly and her name on his lips. Try as he might, he can't shake her. She's gotten inside of him now, burrowed deep under his skin, and he can't stop himself from coming back to her again and again. Just once more, he tells himself. This is the last time.

But it's never the last time.

"God, you're so good at that," Jennifer breathes. Derek likes how she talks when he's between her thighs. "You're so good, your tongue, fuck, I... Derek, I..."

Derek can tell when she's close, because her hips move faster. She bucks against him more wildly, chasing that feeling, desperate to get herself over the edge. She wails when she comes, fingers digging into his scalp, and Derek's pretty sure he sees stars. He licks her through it, thick fingers filling her, and he sucks on her clit as she gasps and shudders. She drives him crazy when she comes.

He kisses his way slowly up her belly, leaving a trail of wetness, and smiles at the pleased little sound she makes when he tongues over her nipple. "God, you taste good."

"Do I?" she asks. Her tone is light, like he hasn't just devoured her, and he settles easily atop her.

"You drive me crazy," he breathes, nuzzling her neck.

Her fingers trail over his back, nails just sharp enough to leave a little sting. A reminder. A warning.

"I know."

* * *

56.  
 **Warnings:** Lingerie kink  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

Derek had kind of expected Stiles to say no, to just flat out refuse and laugh at him. Instead he’d gotten that goofy grin that he often did and bounded up, kissing Derek like his life was ending. And yeah, he knew what that felt like because that kind of kiss had happened once or twice before. Derek should’ve known better really, because Stiles is always 110% all in on everything, especially when it involves his dick. 

So now here he is, sweating on his bed and uncomfortably hard in just his boxers while Stiles thumps around in the bathroom so he can “slip into something more comfortable.” When he comes out he’s wearing his gray hoodie and jeans, and Derek has to fight to keep the slightly disappointed frown off his face.

Stiles crawls over the foot of the bed, up the long stretch of Derek’s legs and settling over his thighs. Derek blinks at him, opens his mouth as if to speak, and then Stiles is pressed up against him and kissing him, tongue slipping out to lick at the corners of his mouth. Derek groans into it, paws at the too-many layers of clothes Stiles has covering him, fisting into the cotton of his shirt and drawing it upward so he can run his fingers all over the smooth skin.

“Nuh-uh, big boy,” Stiles says with a grin into Derek’s lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth and sucking lightly. The slight sting sends a buzz over Derek’s skin, makes his tongue feel thick behind his teeth, his throat tight with nerves. “You wanted a show, you’ll get a show.”

Derek pushes his head back against the wall as Stiles grinds down into him, wrapping his hands around Derek’s wrists and holding them down to the bed. Derek could easily overpower him, but he doesn’t. He lets Stiles move him where he wants him, lets Stiles brush his cherry red lips across his chest, leaves his hands where Stiles tells him to leave them.

Stiles crosses his arms to tug off his shirt, his body stretching up in the process, chest sleek and strong. Derek feels himself pitch forward, a bit desperate to get his hands on what’s his, to trace patterns on the smattering of moles, especially those ones clustered near Stiles’ hipbone and dipping downward. Derek manages to keep his fingers to himself, gripping into the sheets, and Stiles smiles at him beatifically. 

“Good boy.”

Derek curves his hips upward at the words, warmth spreading over his skin like summer heat.

Stiles shimmies off of him and raises to his knees, makes a show of popping open the button of his jeans and slipping them down his hips just enough to reveal a tiny bit of black lace. The glistening head of his cock is peeking out the top, pink and gorgeous, and Derek groans and tightens his fingers into fists.

“Can I…?” he grunts out, his dick squeezing out precome and wetting the front of his boxers.

“Not yet,” Stiles teases, shifting over and pulling his jeans down the rest of the way. Derek’s throat goes dry as he takes in Stiles’ body, pale and thin, all legs and elbows and black lace panties clinging to him perfectly. The long line of his cock is obscene, the pink flesh pressed tight against his belly by the lace, the dark fabric a stark contrast to the white luster of his skin.

“Do you like it?” Stiles asks, and Derek draws hooded eyes upward, his nostrils flaring as he scents the arousal in the air and a bit of nervousness on Stiles’ part as he awaits the answer.

“Yes,” Derek finally manages once his brain starts functioning again. “Please?” One word sentences are all he’s capable of at this point.

Stiles nods and Derek surges forward, hands searching everywhere, over the peak of a nipple, the flat of Stiles’ belly, the tip of his leaking cock. Stiles groans beautifully when Derek closes his paw-like hand over the front of the panties, squeezing him gently. They press down to the bed, Derek weighing Stiles down, Stiles’ legs spreading easily beneath him.

“So fucking gorgeous,” Derek purrs as he plays with the edges of the black lace, brushing along the base of Stiles’ balls that don’t quite fit behind the fabric and making him absolutely shudder. “Want to make a mess in your pretty panties for me, baby?”  
Stiles tips his head back and moans.

* * *

57.  
 **Warnings:** Slightly dubious consent, doppelganger sex  
 **Pairing:** Nogitsune/Stiles Stilinski

"Stop," Stiles said, managing to push the sound out of his throat as he slid along the wall. "You don't... don't have to..."

There was a smile that appeared, a curl of lips underneath eyes that held laughter like a scream, and then there were hands on him. His own hands, but not. "I don't _have_ to do anything. But, seriously, here. Don't you know how beautiful your chaos is?"

Stiles let himself slide further down, his knees bent uncomfortably, angry at himself for not being stronger even though he knew, rationally, that strength didn't really matter much when something supernatural wanted to get you. "Yeah, beautiful chaos. That's me, alright! I'm, like, ninety percent flailing arms, but it's so beautiful! Granted, I guess I can't really be a virgin sacrifice anymore, but it would've been nice if I'd actually had something to do with it. I guess it's not the worst thing to just be wanted for my body?"

"Your mind," said the man who looked like a more confident version of Stiles. "That's where the beauty lies. You're not aware of the depths of your subconscious. You think that you're just a bench warmer for everything, not just lacrosse, because you haven't learned to control that chaos." His doppelganger pulled him back upright. "That's the beauty, Stiles. That's why I came to you."

Shivering, Stiles let himself rest against the wall and tried not to think about how the body in front of him was one he knew so well because it was his own. At least, it had been his own until the Nogitsune had wedged its way inside and had his wicked way with Stiles' life. Most people never saw themselves. Mirrors and photographs were always off enough that a person's brain could change details. Twins catalogued their differences and heralded them. The Nogitsune, though, was Stiles down to the line of 4 moles that traced from his left ear along his cheek. It was beyond unnerving. It was terrifying.

The Nogitsune crouched in front of Stiles, grabbing him and dragging him to meet his gaze. "You're going to touch me like you've always wanted someone to touch you and you're going to cry, but you're going to love it." His fingers closed too tightly around Stiles' wrist and pulled it down until his knuckles brushed against the outline of his doppelganger's cock. "You know you want this."

The sad part was that Stiles did. He wanted it desperately. He had never been good with temptation, so having this chance to do something that no one else ever had? He couldn't say no. He was all too willing, even through the terror. Splaying out his fingers, he let them run down the length of the Nogitsune's cock, his own breath hitching at the look that crossed the doppelganger's face. He was all too certain it mirrored his own, but it pushed him to work toward divesting them both of their clothing.

Twin mouths and twin sets of hands worked on twin cocks, the pair of them stuck in some kind of feedback loop where they learned how to apply the knowledge of what they liked on themselves toward others, even if all of that knowledge was only coming from Stiles' mind. In a way, Stiles thought it was the best teaching method ever. But knowing that he was willingly giving himself over to something like passion with a creature that had killed while wearing his face? It made him anxious and tense even as he came too quickly like the teenager he was. 

He looked, breathless, at his own face, stomach twisting at the smile there. "Strife," Stiles said softly. "Even here in the end, it's all about strife."

The Nogitsune stroked his face almost reverently for a moment. "I have to eat to live. I can't help it that you just taste better than anyone else."

* * *

58.  
 **Warnings:** domesticity, schmoop/fluff  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

"Don't you think the twitching is a little much?" Derek asks from the bedroom doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame.

Stiles' feet give another little twitch. His hands, too, though the effect is blunted by the sheet they're trapped it. "Save me," Stiles begs.

"You are ridiculous. How do you even get tangled up in these things?" Derek mutters, working to free Stiles hands and his frustrated, pouting face. Derek gave up on trying to tame Stiles' sticky-out hair a long time ago. He's resigned himself to its charm and copes as best he can. Most days.

"It is a _sheet_ , Derek. Why can't I fold it? I have a Master's degree. Surely I'm smart enough to know how to fold a fitted sheet by now?!"

With his full attention on Stiles, Derek wrangles the sheet into some semblance of order and proceeds to fold it. "My mom was the smartest person I know, and she still left the laundry to my dad." Which is how Derek learned. Derek's seen the sheriff wrestle with folding things a time or two as well; it seems a little cruel to point out to Stiles he was probably to young for his mom to teach him those things. And as long as Stiles has his own underwear drawer, far away from Derek's, there's no point to it, either.

The sudden quiet draws his attention back to the task at hand, to the neat pile of sheets on the bed and Stiles sprawled out next to them, leaning back on his elbows, his legs open in a wide vee, drawing Derek's eyes up his slim thighs to the bulge growing in his pants. The arched eyebrow is a reflex by now, Derek's sure.

Stiles smirks. "I never thought I'd have a domesticity kink," he says by way of explanation, and throws in a quick flourish with his fingers. "And yet here we are."

"I was folding a sheet!" Derek argues, trying to ignore the flash of heat in his groin and his face.

"And looking hot while doing it!" Stiles hooks a heel behind Derek's knee and draws him close. "Now get over here so I can suck your dick."

"Such a sweet talker," Derek murmurs, but his hands are in Stiles' soft hair, Stiles' fingers are working his jeans open, Stiles' palms are skimming down Derek's legs. Derek's dick is in the hot wet clutch of Stiles' mouth and all Derek can do is ride it out, eyes closed to better ignore Stiles plump red lips and dark, teasing eyes.

Stiles uses every trick he knows; his tongue swirling at the tip, sucking Derek's balls, dragging his fingernails through the hair on Derek's thighs. It has Derek wishing he were on the bed with Stiles on his knees; he's kind of wiped from moving (from Stiles leaving all the heavy lifting to Derek) and Stiles' mouth is devastating on a _good_ day. Like this, Stiles tugging at Derek's foreskin with his lips, Derek can only fist his hands in Stiles' hair and hope for the best.

Stiles' fingers are what does it, in the end; brushing warm and dry over Derek's hole, paired with a pleased hum, a wordless request for Derek to open his eyes. The look on Stiles' face is too much, too open, and Derek's orgasm hits in a slow, sweet wave, Stiles' rhythm softening to keep up with Derek's hitching hips.

Derek's legs feel like jelly, after, and it's nothing for him to collapse into Stiles, for Stiles to use the momentum and roll them onto their sides, away from the pile of clean sheets. The hot press of Stiles' dick against Derek's thigh is unmistakable, but Derek doesn't quite have the coordination to help, even though he wants to. So much.

"It's okay," Stiles breathes into Derek's ear, squirming around. Derek tilts his head toward Stiles' face, toward the earthy scent of come on his breath, but can't open his eyes to see what Stiles is doing. And then he doesn't have to. The sticky press of skin-on-skin is unmistakable, and it's kind of nice to lay there and let Stiles do the work.

Less nice is the mess Stiles makes all over Derek's thigh. Made worse by one slim finger dragging through it in random circles. A telltale sign that Stiles is plotting.

"I wonder other household chores are going to turn me on," Stiles says, eventually.

Derek sighs.

* * *

59.  
 **Warnings:** dub-con  
 **Pairings:** Stiles/Lydia

His name is Stiles.

He hasn’t been Stiles in a long time.

Stiles was moving out before his mom even died. When the demon moved into his body, it didn’t ask for permission, because it had no power.

It said sweet things to Stiles and told him to do things that would be fun. Banging his head against the wall when he didn’t get his way, hiding mommy’s pill bottles. It didn’t mean anything. They were just games.

When mommy goes, it goes into hiding, because Stiles stops speaking to her. She disappears into the nothingness of how empty he feels. She says something nasty about mommy leaving because Stiles killed her and he goes into a fit of terror. He can’t quite catch his breath and there are tears making his eyes burn, but when Stiles finally calms Amara is but a whisper in the back of his mind.

******************************************************************************************

Sometimes Stiles thinks he made her up. Amara was nothing but a game to him. A quick fancy of childhood imagination, and sometimes only a fleeting memory.

It stops being a game when he loses control over his own body and she comes back. The Nogitsune leads him on a rampage through Beacon Hills, and when they win that battle Stiles can hear her again.

She laughs idly about all the fun he had, and promises he’ll have more.

At first he trips up fellow classmates and then he’s daring Lydia to scream for him. Cajoles her into it when he knows she’s trying to tamp it down. Lydia can feel the draw of someone about to die, and by keeping her scream inside she is keeping them alive. Amara slides right into Stiles’ veins, however, and murmurs in her ear that she can’t tamp it down.

“Let it out,” Stiles says, curl of his lip against her red hair and Lydia gives in. A sharp, ratcheting sound that seems to go on forever. A listless echo down every dark corridor and breaching through the tops of trees to hit the very sky above.

Three end up dead.

One is already on their way to the hospital, strapped to a gurney and an oxygen mask helping them to breathe when the pulsing of their blood stops. The others are being cut out of their misshapen, upside-down vehicle. Their bodies becoming limp against the seatbelts, and red continuing to drip down to the roof below them.

Amara laughs inside Stiles’ head; using his body to lean into Lydia and breathe in her hair, skate his hand down her waist.

Lydia shivers, pulling away. She doesn’t seem frightened, but she studies him and Stiles wonders if she sees the Nogitsune when she looks. If she remembers the way his cold, clammy hands felt when he cornered her against cold, steel bars.

Amara schools his expression though, and Lydia shakes her head like it is only her mind playing tricks on her.

Stiles screams for her to keep looking. To watch the monster that is using his skin and hands and face to make things wrong again.

“It’s not often a girl gets up inside a boy like this,” Amara whispers. Laughs at him, really. “We’ll have to fix that.”

It only takes two weeks and Lydia is pinning him to the bed. She’s careful and precise as she gets herself up inside him with the dick that’s belted into place. It’s blue and thick and Amara is making Stiles whine for it. She’s using his voice to beg, when Stiles wants to scream as Lydia holds his shoulder and tells him how beautiful he looks.

Stiles was getting over her. He was trying to move on, and now Lydia has been spun into a web of lies using him to turn everything to dust and being charming in ways that he never was.

It’s Derek that looks at him as if he knows there is something off. Amara hears him whispering to Scott after he looks at Stiles longer than he should.

“His eyes look almost black,” he mumbles, trying to be discreet. A heartbeat passes and Stiles can feel the pull of his iris turning back to honey. Scott searches Stiles’ gaze, but doesn’t see a difference and Stiles screams inside his own head, pleading to be heard.

His name is Stiles, but he’ll never be Stiles again.

* * *

60.  
 **Warnings:** noncon, rape, implied underage, forced bdsm, noncon bondage, gagging, fucking machine, cockcage  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/fucking machine, Stiles/Deucalion

Stiles woke up to the sound of a machine being turned on, the gentle buzzing bringing him out of his haze. He couldn’t see despite his eyes opening. His mouth was pried open, held that way so that he couldn’t help but drool as his head hung downwards. As he tried to lift it, pull up with his hands, he realized they were bound. He tugged, grunting as he squirmed. Held in the air with straps, one behind his back, another under his ass, the last hooked his knees; he couldn’t get purchase.  
Panic ripped through him as he realized that he was naked in a cool room so much so that his nipples were hard. He twisted his wrists, trying to get free as he attempted to swallow, whimpering.

Footsteps around him made him still, his chest heaving. He wasn’t alone, of course he wasn’t. Someone had to put him there, had to gag and bind him. Stiles shivered as he remembered the machine that had woken him up. Stiles flinched when he felt something sharp drag across his neck: a claw. Stiles tried to scream, but it came out as a gargle. The claw grazed across his nipple, making his back arch.

“So responsive,” a familiar voice whispered. Stiles let out a pained groan, his body wanted to react to the touch, but as his cock began to stir, something stopped it from happening. An amused laugh by Stiles’ ear sent a chill down his spine. “I knew taking you would be worth it.” A hand cupped Stiles’ cock, but he could barely feel it. Something was between the clawed hand and his skin, something hard. “You’re mine, now. No use in fighting it. It will hurt, at first, being denied even a simple erection.” Stiles tried, in vain, to get away from the touch, thrashing around. “Now, now,” the voice said, gripping Stiles’ balls and squeezing them until tears ran down Stiles’ cheeks. “None of that.”

The voice was smooth, and so very familiar, but Stiles couldn’t concentrate on it as the claw dragged over his balls.  
“Let’s see how much you can take.” Stiles shook his head, whining as the sound of the machine picked up. Suddenly, there was something pressing against Stiles’ opening slowly. It disappeared, then reappeared again, pressing inwards easily. Stiles panted, his fists clenching as he realized what it was: a fucking machine. “While you were passed out I took the liberty of opening you up. You belong to me, now.” Stiles sobbed as the pace quickened. The dildo breached him completely, stretching him out painfully. As the machine continued on, slowly fucking him, he couldn’t stop crying.  
Hands cupped his face, wiping away his tears as they angled his face downward. Stiles’ breath hitched in his throat as he closed his eyes despite not being able to see. The machine thrusted in and out of him, its pace quickening again, making him sway in the swing with the force. He felt as though he was being split in two as a hand wrapped around his throat, claws digging into his flesh. 

With his mouth forced wide, he couldn’t do anything as the head of a cock slid against his tongue, smearing precome across his lips and chin. Stiles gagged, choking as it forced its way into his mouth, drool dripping down his cheeks uncontrollably. As his captor thrust into his mouth, the machine fucked into him, it’s own movements becoming harsher, deeper.  
“You look beautiful like this,” he said, shoving his cock down Stiles’ throat, stilling there. Stiles couldn’t breath as he was held still, the pace of the machine unrepentant. When his mouth was empty once more, Stiles coughed, gasping for air as best he could. “Your filthy mouth red, dripping wet.” Stiles could hear it, that he was jacking off over him. “I can’t wait to knot you, to claim you.” Hot bursts of come covered Stiles’ chest and chin, his own cock aching from being forced to remain limp in its cage. Stiles moaned with every thrust, his arms tugging at his restraints, unable to stop. The machine was turned off, leaving Stiles feeling empty, his ass raw. 

When the eye mask was lifted, Stiles closed his eyes at the bright light. Eventually, he was able to open them. He whimpered, curling inwards as he saw Deucalion standing over him, smirking down at him.  
“We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I.”

* * *

61.  
 **Warnings:** serial killers in love, knotting, blood, non-con groping of their victim, torture  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

"One, two, buckle my shoe."

Stiles sings softly, shoes scraping softly across the wooden hallway floor of the old abandoned house in the woods. There's no electricity, and the pitch black is a velvety echo of the aching darkness inside of him, only lightened by the caress of the moon.

He hears a sound in one of the rooms to his right, and his head snaps around. A slow smile stretches across his face and he turns, keeping his pace even as he enters the bedroom.

"Three, four, shut the door."

The door closes with a soft click. The room is silent now but he knows better.

She's in here.

She thinks she can _hide_.

"Five, six, pick up sticks."

Stiles picks up a heavy chunk of wood and sees a shadow shift under the bed. Dropping down, he bends to peek underneath and is met with huge, beautifully terrified eyes.

Stiles tsks. "It's so dusty under there. Why don't you come on out and let me take care of you?"

He reaches to pull her out and she screams, kicking at him. Stiles chuckles and easily catches an ankle, dragging her out into the open. She's still screaming, tears running down her dirty cheeks, nails going bloody as she claws at the floor in an effort to get away.

"Now, now, there's no need for all that," Stiles says, and bashes her on the head with the chunk of wood. She goes limp, and Stiles nods in satisfaction. 

"Seven, eight, lay them straight."

She's light, and Stiles easily picks her up and lays her flat on the bed. Her head lolls to the side and Stiles uses the cords secured to the bedposts to spread her out and tie her down.

Then he strips naked and crawls up the bed to straddle her waist, already achingly hard. He rips her shirt open – ooh, no bra, _naughty girl_ – before sliding one hand under the pillow. Stiles grins widely when he finds a bottle of lube and his favorite butt plug. "Don't worry," he cheerfully tells her silent form, "this isn't for you."

Stiles coats the plug with the lube and reaches back to push it into himself, lips parting on a groan. He works it in and out until the widest part is stretching his rim, but he doesn't take it all the way.

"I see you found your gift."

Stiles looks around at where Derek is standing in the now open door, as naked and hard as Stiles, taking in the scene with a desperate, hungry gaze.

"She's beautiful," Stiles breaths. "She's going to bleed so perfectly."

Derek grins and stalks forward, wrapping his fingers around Stiles' wrist and pulling both his hand and the plug away. "Happy anniversary," he murmurs lovingly into Stiles' ear.

Derek places his other hand between Stiles' shoulders and pushes him forward, until Stiles hums happily and rubs his face against the girl's naked breasts. He feels the tip of Derek's dick against his hole, and a second later Derek slams all the way in, his huge dick stretching Stiles so, so wide. Stiles cries out and then laughs manically, the pain of being so forcefully taken sending waves of incredible pleasure through him.

"Fuck yes, baby, just like that."

Derek fucks him _hard_ , just the way Stiles likes, the very tips of his claws digging into Stiles' hips and drawing pinpricks of blood. Stiles clings to the girl below him, even when she wakes up and starts to scream and cry again.

"So good, so good," Stiles moans, and nuzzles at her tits, sucking one of her nipples into his mouth. He keeps sucking as Derek keeps fucking, and only releases her when he feels Derek's knot start to grow and catch on his rim. "Fuck _yes_ , knot me, make me your bitch –"

Derek growls, snapping his hips forward and shoving his knot deep as it swells and locks them together. Stiles comes with a hoarse scream, dick jerking almost violently as he makes a mess of the quietly sobbing girl beneath him.

After a few long, blissed-out moments, Derek leans forward and curls Stiles' fingers around a small silver blade. Together, they lift the dagger and slide it over the girl's pale, pretty throat, watching as her blood runs red over her skin.

Derek presses a kiss to Stiles' ear and whispers, "Nine, ten, start again."

* * *

62.  
 **Warnings:** n/a  
 **Pairing:** Chris/Sheriff

The sheriff couldn’t really put in words just how much of a relief informing his son and Allison about his relationship to Chris had been. For one, he didn’t like lying, especially not to Stiles. Secondly, it was immensely satisfying to be able to take Chris out to dinner without feeling like he was in the middle of a heist, constantly glancing over his shoulder. Thirdly, spending intimate moments in the backseat had been hell on his back (though they were stuck in the car like teenagers, John for one found it painfully obvious he wasn’t as flexible as one anymore) and the last time they took a motel for two hours, he had been fairly sure the receptionist thought Chris was a rent boy.

Spending more time with him at home revealed details of the unimportant and interesting sort, the kind John had missed knowing about his partner. Chris’ desk was usually orderly except for when he had to deal with official taxation documents, which he found boring and would ignore until right before the deadline. His coffee was always black and so were his socks, so they immediately got mixed up with John’s in the laundry. He kept a photo of Allison, kindergarten aged and dressed up as a pirate, in the drawer of his nightstand. He never paid attention to sports enough to even remember team names, but he liked having it running in the background while he cleaned his guns.

There was another little thing he found out about after a week or two. When John fell asleep Chris was usually still awake and reading. Entering Chris’ house after his night shift one evening and walking up to the bedroom, John saw that the lamp on the bedside table was still on. Chris’ book laid closed on the ground and John smiled, imagining how it had slowly slipped from his grasp as he sank into sleep. He leaned over and switched off the light before he moved quietly into the bathroom.

When he came back, the light was back on and Chris opened his eyes at the sound of his footsteps.

“Hey. Didn’t mean to wake you. You can turn it off, I’ll find my way,” John said as he walked over to the bed.

There was a short moment of hesitation, but then Chris said: “It‘s okay. I don’t like the dark.”

John paused in folding back the blanket.

“Sorry, what?”

“I know what can hide there,” Chris said.

John had to give Chris that – people from the world he had grown up in probably would think wandering into a dark cellar was as save as playing on the train tracks. Still, it wasn’t the sort of thing you expected to hear from someone who could beat up a Navy SEAL. Come to think of it, though, he had noticed before that the light was on when he got up for the early shift, but he’d simply assumed Chris liked to read until his eyes fell shut.

“If it bothers you, I can shut it off,” Chris said, turning his head to look at him.

“No, it’s alright. But maybe we could get one of those little nightlights. Stiles used to have one with a teddy bear on it...”

Chris pushed against his chest with both hands, grinning lopsidedly, movement sluggish with sleep, and John used the chance to pull him into his arms.

It was late in the night and John was as tired as Chris looked, but he actually liked the simmering, hazy, slow burn as they kissed, skin to skin, touches long and thorough until Chris’ hand eventually slid down into his shorts. However, before John reached out to reciprocate, he pulled down the blanket, unveiling Chris’ muscular body covered in soft hair and scars, faint and angry red alike, old and new, a pattern he loved to follow with his eyes.

“What’re you doing?” Chris asked, looking up, his eyes ice blue even in the twilight.

“Enjoying that the light is on,” John said with a smile.

* * *

63.  
 **Warnings:** Temporary Character Death  
 **Pairing:** Stiles/Derek

She’d come to Derek first but he couldn’t appease her. _Wouldn’t_.

+

Stiles smells like flop sweat and confusion. Derek watches his gaze flick between Morrell’s darkly amused face and the mountain ash encircling her.

Smile becomes smirk. “What do you think, Stiles?” she asks in that saccharine-sweet voice of hers, lips pursing. Her eyes dart up, ringing white and Derek knows those eyes. _Hates_ those eyes. “Permanent darkness? An eternal eclipse? You know what it does to werewolves but did you know it affects all magic? Renders it inert.”

She’s going to ruin everything Derek’s worked so hard to protect. And he can’t stand by and watch it happen. He slinks out of the shadows.

“Get away from him.” The words stick, lodging in his throat.

Gone is seduction and in its place is fury. “You’ve unbalanced an entire town.”

Derek doesn’t care. He eyes the circle, flexes his claws. “I will kill you,” he promises.

“I know exactly what you’re capable of, Derek Hale.” Her eyes flash, voice drops. “He’s an abomination.”

Derek flinches, remembers Stiles’ lips forming the word long before—before—

“Derek?” It’s a broken exhalation, the voice of someone who already knows something’s wrong.

“Tell him,” she spits.

He won’t.

Her face contorts and she turns to Stiles herself. “No town is this unlucky. Deep down, you know it.” Derek can see tumblers clicking into place, doesn’t know how to stop it happening. “So many who died young, so much life stolen.” She’s almost whispering now. “Those who aren’t meant to have it always run through it more quickly.” To Derek, she says, “Tell him or I _show_ him.”

Derek _can’t_ and she moves the moon.

Stiles’ heartbeat doesn’t so much as stutter. The world goes dark and so does he. He collapses, heavy, consciousness snuffed out. Silent, still.

Dead.

Something in Derek breaks seeing it again and he can’t help the mournful howl that erupts from him. He’s half-shifted, half-wild. He slams into the barrier of mountain ash—too elemental to be broken—snarls around fangs, “Undo it.”

She only smirks. “You’re not sure how long is too long, are you? How dead is too dead for the spell to keep him going?”

Derek rages, her eyes go white and light spills back in.

Stiles’ heart beats and Derek sinks to his knees in a bone deep relief. There’s no way to hide it now, Stiles is too curious, too sure there’s something to be curious about. Derek says bluntly, “You died in Gerard’s basement.”

Stiles’ whole body jerks.

Derek swallows, he can’t stop now he’s started. “Once he finished wiring up Erica and Boyd, he did the same to you. I found you, my family had—there was a spell—you weren’t supposed to _die_.” The words tumble together, Stiles’ blank eyes on cold cement at the forefront of his mind. “When Boyd died, I knew.” He’d watched them all follow—ending in Allison. Their stolen life feeding Stiles’.

“Death’s been trying to correct the imbalance,” Morrell says, almost gently, from behind them.

Fuck. This, too, then. Derek grits his teeth, eyes wet, and says, “It was a surge of electricity, _again_.” That damn aluminum bat. “The spell wouldn’t have worked twice.” His breath catches, voice shaking, and he can’t look at Stiles. “The nogitsune was _right there_.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles breathes, shattered.

He knows now, what Derek’s done, what he knowingly handed him over to. The nogitsune was the only way to fix what was broken. It had been worth it. Worth _anything_.

“This is—You have to let me go. Derek, this isn’t my life.” He’s staring down at his own hands, lost. “It’s _stolen_. You have to—”

Derek surges up, wraps arms around him, heads off the oncoming panic attack as best he can with the warmth of his body. “Forgive me,” he whispers hoarsely, sinking his claws into the back of Stiles’ neck.

Taking the memory exhausts them both. Stiles’ eyelids flutter, close, and Derek stands on unsteady legs.

“Tell him again and I rip out your spine.”

Morrell dips her chin.

+

Derek takes Stiles to the loft, after. He pushes him against the door, kisses him hard. Stiles kisses back, makes a confused, contented sound into it, and when Derek takes him to bed and fucks him for the first time, he goes willingly.

He won’t remember what Derek’s done to keep him there, only that Derek wants him to stay.

* * *

64.  
 **Pairing:** Sterek

Stiles wasn’t always like this. Derek can still remember the boy he met in the woods, whose limbs flailed and mouth moved endlessly with fear and nerves and excitement. Derek never thought he'd miss _that_ boy. Stiles the teenager had always been irritating, frustrating, _never-ending_ , and Derek had fast grown tired of his presence.

Until Stiles went from teenage to possessed, from possessed to lost, from lost to... _this_.

The sarcasm's still there, but it's different. It's twisted and bitter and _dark_ , and Derek doesn't know how to fix it.

"No one knows how to fix _you_ ," Lydia said once, when Stiles was lying in a hospital bed again. " _You_ can't be fixed. Neither can he."

She was right. No one can fix Derek. Derek's been broken so many times, he'll never be the same again.

*

"What are you doing?" Derek gasps. He's sweating from his work-out, his pants are being dragged down his legs, and Stiles is resolutely staring up at him.

"I want this," Stiles says, eyes unblinking, fingers firm against Derek's hips. "Don't you?" 

His heart's not a beat out of sync. 

Derek is terrified.

*

The first time Derek realises he's far too invested than is safe, Stiles is beating the shit out of a rogue werewolf. Blood is gushing from the broken body, coating Stiles in a blanket of wet red, until Scott lays a hand on Stiles' arm to forcibly quiet him.

"Hey man," Scott says, grip tight, "it's over."

Stiles stares numbly at the corpse, flecks of blood sliding down his face. 

"It's over," he murmurs to himself, and Derek closes his eyes against the tremor that travels through his skin.

*

"Fuck," Stiles moans, forcing himself down onto Derek's cock; he'd barely scissored himself open with his three fingers before he was pushing Derek onto the bed and eagerly straddling him. " _Fuck_ , I dreamt about how you'd feel inside of me, so big and--oh _fuck!_ Derek, _Derek_ \--"

Derek can do nothing but let Stiles take, take it all until there's nothing left behind.

*

"How do you stop?" Stiles asks, eyes bright and dark in the night.

Derek glances at him as they trudge through the forest. "Stop what?"

Stiles rolls his shoulders, refusing to meet Derek's eyes. "The guilt. Does it ever stop?"

Derek looks away; ducks a branch and lifts it for Stiles' sake. "No."

Stiles is silent for a long time, until:

"Do you want it to?"

Derek's steps falter for a moment, but it's enough. He swallows hard and keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

"No."

*

 _I love you_ , Stiles mouths into Derek's jaw, like he can't _hear_ it travelling through his skin, reverberating in the depths of his chest.

"I miss you," Derek says, sliding a possessive hand through Stiles' hair.

Stiles looks into his eyes, confused. "I'm right here."

Derek's smile is sad as he thumbs the moles decorating the expanse of Stiles' neck. "I've got you," he murmurs.

Stiles' eyes flutter shut, arching into Derek's touch. "Don't let me blow away."

Derek holds Stiles tighter, their bodies fitting like jigsaw puzzle pieces. "I've got you," he says softly. "I've got you."

* * *

65.  
 **Warnings:** Spells, Doppelgangers, Dubious Consent  
 **Pairing:** Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Chris Argent

“So let me get this straight. Argent pushed Scott out of the way and intercepted a spell meant to ‘bring out his dark side’?” Peter asked. Stiles sighed and ran his hands through his hair. 

“Yes. We’ve already told you twice, do we need to go over it again?” 

“No, I think I’ve got it now.” He glanced over at the window. “And now we have two of him.” 

“But different versions,” Stiles said. “One has all the positive qualities, such as…I don’t know, kindness and stuff. The other has things such as pride and greed and, basically, they’re embodiments of the seven deadly sins and seven heavenly virtues.”

“Such as lust and honesty,” Peter said. One of the men by the window smirked at him, and Peter pinned him as Dark Chris, which made the other Light Chris. Peter smirked back at them. 

“Ugh, no, I am not sticking around to watch your uncle have eye sex with a Chris clone, Derek,” Stiles said. “Come on, Scott, we have to get home, our parents aren’t working tonight.” He grabbed his friend’s arm and dragged him out of the loft. Derek frowned at Peter and the two Chrises. 

“You’re not doing that here. Out,” he ordered, pointing at the door. Dark Chris sauntered over and slid his arm around Peter’s waist. 

“We can go have fun at my place,” he murmured in his ear. 

“Out!” Derek barked. Light Chris looked vaguely ill as he herded them out the door. The ride over to Chris’s apartment was fast but boring, Peter forced to sit in the back and not be a distraction. They got upstairs without being seen, and as soon as they were through the door, Peter was being slammed against the wall and kissed within an inch of his life. He vaguely registered the other Chris closing and locking the door, then removing their shoes and jackets. When it looked like he was going to walk away, Peter broke the kiss and grabbed him. 

“Don’t worry about anything else. Stay with me,” he said against his lips. Light Chris blushed as Dark Chris grabbed his hips, grinding his cock into Peter’s ass. Peter’s shirt was lifted and tossed away and his pants soon followed, leaving him naked between the two. Dark Chris got his jeans down enough to get his cock out and pushed it between Peter’s thighs, rocking dryly. Light Chris looked unsure even as Peter opened his shirt one button at a time. He shared a look with his doppelganger over Peter’s shoulder, then ducked his head and took Peter’s nipple in his mouth. Peter moaned and dropped his head back, and a mark was sucked into his bare throat. 

“Bed,” someone muttered, and the three stumbled their way down the hall to collapse on Chris’s bed. Soon they were all naked, and Peter eyed Chris’s two cocks hungrily, deciding he wanted to suck one. Dark Chris was already reaching for the lube and Peter’s ass, so Peter manhandled Light Chris onto the bed so his legs were bent among the pillows. He lowered himself down on him, head to hip, while he was being fingered open. He sucked the cock into his mouth and heard both of them groan. 

“Yes, suck it,” Chris said behind him, fucking him with his fingers. Peter groaned as his cock was timidly licked and kissed, rocking his hips eagerly. Dark Chris hissed and the bed shifted with his weight as he climbed on behind Peter, entering him quickly with little finesse. Chris whimpered beneath him and groaned above. Nimble, calloused fingers sought out his nipples and balls as Chris fucked in deep and tongued his foreskin, and Peter nearly came just from that, his eyes rolling back. He gripped Chris’s thighs and sucked him to the root, both of them bucking into him. Dark Chris stabilized himself and started fucking Peter fast and hard, Light Chris choking on his cock below him. Peter figured out that flicking his tongue across the slit earned him hard thrusts and pinches to his nipples, and so the three of them quickly whipped each other into a frenzy. 

Unsurprisingly, none of them lasted long, Peter spilling into Chris’s mouth as they filled his ass and throat. They lay around afterwards in a sweaty tangle, Peter sandwiched neatly between them.

“So,” Peter said breathlessly after a moment. “Who’s up for round two?”

* * *

66.  
 **Warnings:** sex, character death  
 **Pairing:** Scott/Lydia

 

In the moonlight with the curtains drawn, it's almost easy. They have a big bed, but they sleep close together, so Scott never feels too far away. Lydia likes that, it makes her feel good, makes it safe, safe the way Scott is safe. Scott is safe and sweet and good and his hands are soft, slow and gentle on her breasts the way his his mouth is on her thighs. He whispers please into her lips and uses his tongue to paint it on her skin, uses his fingers to press it into her over and over again until she's gasping his name. It feels good, to have someone who asks her opinion, who treats her like she matters, who is never rough unless she begs. 

She does, sometimes, or he will, and they spend a flashfire of moments biting each other's mouths and snapping their hips together, Lydia's nails on Scott's back and his fingers tangled in her hair. It's just teeth and claws and these sounds only he can wring out of her, sounds more earth-shattering than a scream. 

Easy. It's easy--almost easy. They fuck, they make love, they kiss, they cuddle. Scott wraps his arms around her. She cars her fingers through his hair. It's simple. It's _enough_. 

But it's different when the sun is up. The mornings are cold and they wake up with the sheets tangled--limbs, too--naked and cold. The room feels empty with just the two of them, and there's never enough time to talk about it. Scott has morning breath. Lydia always has smudged mascara and a full bladder. They don't go into work at the same time. 

Scott always says Lydia takes too long in the shower. She goes into work late, and his shift is usually early, but Lydia always showers first and uses all the hot water. Scott always comes in to brush his teeth and forgets she's in there and flushes the toilet. Lydia yells. Scott curses. Lydia spends half her shower freezing in the corner with soap in her eyes and a tangled, frozen mess of matted hair to deal with. 

It's not all bad. They make up with pleasantries and kisses. Scott makes coffee. Lydia reads the paper. Lydia finishes her make up and straightens the living room and Scott always asks to see what she's hungry for before he makes breakfast. Lydia's agreeable, usually goes for what Scott's having and a second cup of coffee. Scott makes great pancakes, and he lets Lydia pick out his ties. 

Scott moves around a lot when he's cooking. The kitten dances through his feet, climbs up his pant legs, bites at his ear. It's adorable, but it doesn't make Lydia feel any better. It doesn't make Scott feel any better, either. The kitten is cute, breakfast is nice, everything is fine, but there's nothing so adorable that it can make up for the lack of place settings at the table. They're not lonely, they're just alone, and not because it's morning: there are only two plates on the table because only two survived.

* * *

67.  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles  
“Fancy meeting you here.”

Derek groans at the sound of the too chipper voice behind him, and knocks back the rest of his whiskey.

“Now now, don’t be like that, “Stiles says, sliding smoothly into the seat beside Derek. He’s wearing a devil-may-care (ha) grin, and Derek has to fight the immediate visceral reaction that it evokes. 

“Stiles,” He says, hoping his voice comes out as emotionless as he intends. He has a bad feeling that he fails. “ _What_ are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, hanging out, committing general acts of mayhem and murder…tempting angels. The usual,” and then, after a long pause, he adds petulantly, “It’s all so booooring. Well, except for the tempting angels thing. I feel like there might be some potential there.”

“Bothering me, more like.”

“You are my favorite, Der. Hells, I like you more than pretty much all of my kind. Also, you have a nice dick. I’ve been thinking about it.”

Derek snorts. “Just because I happened to have made the mistake, _once_ , of letting you open your mouth instead of sticking my sword in you and ending you like I should have, it doesn’t mean you can just…” Derek trails off as Stiles shimmies into his space, wedging his way between Derek and the edge of the bar. He reaches one hand down to cup brazenly at Derek’s already half hard dick. 

“You protest too much,” Stiles says, “Also, I seem to recall that there actually was some sticking of swords before that particular night was over.” Stiles winks saucily. “I’m actually sort of hoping you might be tempted into doing it again. Whaddya say buddy ol pal?”

“How about no.”

Which is how they end up with Derek pressing Stiles against the wall of a pay by the hour motel room not even an hour later, Derek trying to kiss the sulphur and cinnamon taste out of Stiles’ mouth. 

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles rasps, tilting his head back even further when Derek clasps a hand, just on the edge of too tightly, around the column of his throat. Derek likes how it gives the illusion of Stiles being vulnerable. He likes it even more in contrast to the way Stiles ruts up against him, shamelessly riding the thigh Derek slides between his legs. 

“Gonna fuck me now?” He asks, shoving at Derek a little to get him moving back toward the bed. “Gonna spread me out and commit all kinds of sins with me?”

“Maybe I’ll make love to you instead,” Derek says, even though they both know that Derek’s never had the patience for it. He might be an angel, but he’s never been particularly good at it. Then again, Stiles had been an angel once too. Derek sometimes can’t help but wonder how different they really are.

“If you say so baby.” 

Stiles finally backs them up the last few steps until Derek’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and he falls back with a soft oomph. “This is gonna be fun,” Stiles decides, stripping out of his shirt and straddling Derek’s thighs in one smooth move, already angling his mouth for another kiss.

~~~

Derek grunts, his hips stuttering as his orgasm rips out of him. He can feel his wings extending out behind him, stretching and shuddering with his pleasure, even as he’s distantly aware of the cold leathery coil of Stiles’ tale gripping at one of his thighs, keeping him close and buried deep.

It takes Derek a moment to come back to himself, but when he does, it’s to the feel of Stiles pressing himself back against Derek’s dick in frustrated little rolls of his hips. He’s holding himself up on one hand, and there’s a rhythmic shifting of his body against Derek, as jacks himself off. 

“Let me,” Derek slurs into Stiles’ ear, and then he’s reaching around, knocking Stiles’ hand away so he can replace it with his own. His movements are slow and sloppy, but it must do the trick because not even a moment later Stiles is shuddering and coming, the forked tip of his tale digging deeper into Derek’s thigh, probably drawing blood if the sudden metallic tang in the air is anything to go by.

“Dude,” Stiles says triumphantly a few moments later, half buried beneath Derek’s collapsed weight. “Boss is gonna be so happy with me today.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but wonders, not for the first time, if sex with Stiles might just be worth it anyway.

* * *

68.  
 **Warnings:** Blood, implied violence, implied killing.  
 **Pairing:** Scott/Stiles

This is what shame feels like, he realizes. He hasn’t felt it for so long. It’s been days and weeks and months since he’s felt anything in particular, other than a cheap satisfaction and necessary focus. But here he is, feeling disgraced, embarrassed, like he’s done something terribly, horribly wrong. 

He has. He’s not the kind of evil Machiavellian type who believes he’s in the right and everyone else is twisted. He does _know_ that slicing people’s throats is generally considered a heinous crime. Several heinous crimes. 

But he did it for him and he isn’t going to stop. Even if he wants him to. 

Scott looks so broken. Beaten. Not a single mark or scratch or scar, but he’s clearly been falling apart without him. And now he knows and it’s like whatever was left has been pulverized, ground into dust. 

“Stiles?” he asks, and it comes out croaky and dry.

“Yeah, buddy.”

“Tell me you didn’t do this and I’ll believe you. Tell me you were possessed again. Tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

Scott tears up and Stiles feels that nagging, clawing sensation low in his gut again. Half of him likes it. It’s better than being numb. 

“I’ve never been able to lie to you, Scott,” he replies. 

He ineffectually wipes the blood from his hand, sheathes his knife. He saunters close and Scott doesn’t flinch or step away. He can pull him tight with a hand clasped around his forearm. Scott’s heat is intoxicating and Stiles has been cold for too long. He smothers him in a hug, eyes closing involuntarily. For once, he isn’t at high alert. 

“All these people…” Scott begins, hands winding around his back like he has no choice but to place them there, like it never occurred to him to push Stiles away.

Stiles presses a kiss against Scott’s neck. “All these hunters.”

“You think that absolves you?” 

Scott sounds confused. It’s the most endearing thing Stiles has ever heard. 

“I think it gives me justification. They may not have been after you now, but sooner or later they’d try to take you from me and I couldn’t let that happen.”

Scott prises himself back so he can look in his eyes. He still has some hope there, in the depths of his despair. “You have to turn yourself in. You have to come clean. Talk to your dad, he’ll do something to get you the help you need.”

This is what shame feels like, but Stiles says, “Okay, I will. You have to do something for me first.”

“Anything.”

“Let me kiss you?”

Scott’s brow crinkles, his lips pout, but he nods. He even, tentatively, drags his hand up and cradles Stiles’ jaw. 

“You want to remember something good,” he murmurs, smoothing his thumb over Stiles’ cheekbone.

It’s as true as it is a lie and Stiles won’t negate it. He takes a shuddery breath, presses forward, seeks out Scott’s warm, wet mouth. Scott opens against him so sweetly, as natural as breathing, and Stiles takes advantage, deepens the kiss until they’re so tightly entwined nothing could tear them apart.

He drags his hands up under Scott’s shirt, can feel a smear of blood, but won’t let it stop him, he needs to touch. Scott doesn’t just allow it, he encourages it, returns it, skimming his hands over Stiles’ hips and rolling them together. Perhaps it’s desperation. Maybe it’s surrender. But Scott moans into his mouth and doesn’t protest when Stiles pops his jeans button, doesn’t squirm when Stiles wraps a spit-covered hand around him. He arches into Stiles’ slow, slick slide.

Scott whimpers, claws starting to poke through his fingers, lightly scoring where they’re pressed against his skin. Stiles has never felt so fragile and so powerful all at the same time. Scott’s cheeks are pink, his lips are glistening. Stiles tries to file the memory away, because he knows he’s going to want to remember this, Scott on the point of rapture. 

“I don’t regret it,” Stiles says, hushed, stroking Scott’s cock with a punishing, calculated rhythm. 

“You can’t mean that?” Scott chokes out, dark eyes beseeching. 

“I only regret the time we were apart,” Stiles admits. 

Scott comes with a full-bodied tremble, expression scrunching. Stiles takes the moment to unsheathe his knife and plunge it into his side. He was careful in his placement, made sure to avoid all major organs. It’s symmetry, he thinks. 

“Don’t follow me.”

This is what shame feels like.

* * *

69.  
 **Warnings: Dub-con**  
 **Pairings: Sterek**

You're sitting at your desk, the dark wood stained and scarred. There's a tumbler half-full of whiskey by your side, the glass sweating in the heavy summer heat, ice long since gone. The fan turns uselessly overhead, pressing hot, humid air down on you. You've got your shirt sleeves rolled up to your elbows, a thin layer of sweat clinging to your forearms. Lydia’s out today, working on tracking down some deadbeat, so you’ve got the windows open as wide as they can go. There’s a fleeting breeze that feels like cool hands against your neck, but it’s gone more than it’s not.

 _Dad never had to deal with this_ , you think, leaning back in your chair. Sheriff of a small town didn’t come with many perks, but northern California was at least cooler than New York. Out here, it’s all dirt and grime and hot asphalt. Some days, like these, you miss the towering trees and the cool, soft breezes. But it’s 1948, and there’s really nothing for you in Beacon Hills. You knew that when you got back from the war, knew that living a quiet, peaceful life wasn’t something you could do anymore. The weather may occasionally suck, but living in New York fills a space in your chest that Normandy blew wide open.

You down your whiskey, the glass sticking to your fingers. It burns, the liquor sitting heavy in your stomach. There’s a knock at the door, and you set the glass on the desk. The sleeves of your shirt stick against your skin as you try to roll them down. You’re halfway out of your chair when the door slams open. The man who walks through is wide in the shoulders and lean in the hips, his dark hair lying across his forehead in a limp mess. His eyes, when they meet yours, remind you of stormy seas. There’s something deep beneath the surface, but you’ll never really know what. You finally get the sleeves down, your hands shaking suddenly, and button them at the wrist.

“How can I help you?”

“My sister, she…” he chokes out. He shakes his head, then shuts the door behind him. “She’s been missing for a couple of weeks. The cops haven’t done anything, and I just… I don’t know what to do.”

You nod, then direct him to the chair in front of the desk.

“If we’re talking about a standard missing person, that runs about twenty-five dollars a day, plus a five dollar per diem.”

He shakes his head, face ashen.

“I can’t afford that,” he says, running his hands through his hair, his head hanging.

Maybe it’s the liquor, or maybe it’s the taut bowstring of his shoulders in his crisp shirt, but something motivates you to reach out and lay your hand on the desk, drawing his attention upwards.

“Look, pal. I’m not trying to be tough here, but PI work is expensive, and that’s that. I’ve gotta eat, you understand?”

He nods, his eyes staying glued on your hand on the table.

“Save up a little money, then come see me, and we’ll get your girl back. Alright?”

You go to pull your hand away, but he stops you with his own. His fingers are a sudden excitement on your skin.

“There’s got to be something I can do,” he says, looking up at you through his eyelashes. “Some other way I can pay you.”

There’s a hot thrum below your skin, your pulse like a sudden gust of warm air. You slowly turn your hand so your palm is facing up, cradling his long, elegant fingers in your own. He threads his fingers in between yours, then slowly pulls your hand from the desk. You lean forward, your body flowing after his, until you’re half leaning on the desk, your fingers pressed against his mouth. He parts his lips, then slowly draws your middle finger in. His mouth is warm, his tongue pressed tight against your finger. There’s a sudden suction, and you feel it down in the soles of your feet. Your cock jumps in your slacks, pressing against the slightly damp fabric. You’re too warm, but for different reasons now.

“Yeah,” you say, voice choked and heavy. “Yeah, there’s something we can do.”

* * *

70.  
 **Warnings:** spanking  
 **Pairing:** Braeden/Lydia

Braeden's dark fingers contrasted strongly with Lydia's pale ass. She took a moment to admire and rub before swatting once. 

Lydia snorted, "I'm not even counting that." 

Braeden smirked, "Your call princess, either way you'll be counting to twenty." Braeden's hand came down again, making the fair flesh wobble. It was a medium hit, and normally Lydia would have counted it, but the woman was had a stubborn streak. Braeden didn't mind though, she was prepared for stubborn- she was excited for stubborn. 

Braeden just barely cupped her hand for the next hit, coming down far harder and louder than the previous. A 'one' slipped past Lydia's lips, and Braeden grinned victoriously. Lydia squirmed but didn't say anything more. 

She hit her four more times in rapid succession, forcing the numbers past Lydia's lips quickly. She paused after those hits, admiring the darkening flush spreading over her ass. Her fingers dipped lower and came up wet. 

"Well, well- someone's really excited tonight. Are you going to drip all over me, baby?" 

Lydia blushed, burying her face into the covers, and mumbled, " _No_." 

"Good. I'd hate to have to plug up your holes so early in the night," Braeden answered, caressing her cheeks once more before her hand came down again. Five more rapid slaps in succession and Lydia was holding her pose, but whimpering into the covers- and that wouldn't do. 

"Head up darling, if you're going to be noisy I'd like to hear it clearly," Braeden purred, and Lydia tilted up lightheaded. The next slap came suddenly at the crease between her thigh and the bottom of her cheek, and she cried out, quickly following the noise with a 'twelve'. 

At the sixteenth hit, Lydia could no longer hold position, her body slumping down. Usually she would berate her for it, but her legs had split open so perfectly, she couldn't stand the thought of Lydia moving them. So instead Braeden briefly cupped her sex, the damp heat just right against her palm. She slipped two fingers in and up easily, her girl was soaked, and Lydia whined when she removed them. 

"Four more," she said, dragging out the last hits. Lydia quaked and bit her lip, trying not to grind down against the legs beneath her. She had gotten herself off once during a spanking session and got put in the chastity belt for a week- she hadn't made the same mistake since. 

Braeden smiled contentedly after the twentieth spank- a double handed smack to the center of both cheeks- and admired the tormented globes. There were a few dark pink fingerprints around the edges, and two red points in her centers. Braeden pushed and pulled at the warmed skin, and Lydia let out a hiss. 

"You wanna keep going?" she asked. 

Lydia did, jumping up before her with her red curls at Braeden's lips. Her head swam for a moment, Lydia's lower lips before her glistening with moisture. 

"What number?" Braeden asked, lightly caressing her buttocks. 

"Six," Lydia answered, and slipped her hands into Braeden's curls, lightly scratching her skull. 

"Good," she murmured before pressing her face forward. Lydia was moaning before she even came close to her clit, too keyed up for extensive teasing. Braeden's mouth got to work on her labia, licking between all the creases and taking breaks to nip at her inner thighs. Her hands clenched Lydia's sore ass tightly, and the redhead shook at the sensations, locking her knees to stay standing. 

"More, please Brae," Lydia begged, neediness erasing any embarrassment. 

The older woman's tongue plunged into her at the request, and her nails lightly scraped at the bruised skin, making Lydia's hips jerk. Her tongue thrust deeper and her hands kept Lydia almost still as she gradually brought her to orgasm. Lydia came with a happy sigh, and sunk into Braeden's lap, cuddling into her instantly. 

Braeden's fingers moved to gently card through her hair, "You doing okay?"

Lydia tilted her head up to give her a sleepy smile and a peck on the lips, "Yeah... I've missed this." 

Braeden nuzzled into her neck, "Whenever you need it babe."

Lydia gave her a coy smile, "Oh really? In public?" 

"If you want an audience," Braeden answered. 

Lydia's lips twitched, "How about when I wake up in the middle of the night?" 

Braeden chuckled, "Only if you don't want to sit down the next morning." 

Lydia's eyes glittered, "I'm holding you to that."

* * *

71.  
 **Warnings:** n/a  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

"Can you even imagine it, Derek? The whole kingdom loves this little girl so much that they can't let her go. For all they know she's been dead for eighteen years, but they still hold on, they still wait for her to come back to them. Every year, they try to lead her back home. They love her that much."

"It's just a movie, Stiles," Derek says between sleepy breaths.

Stiles rests his head on Derek's bare chest, listening to his breathing evening out, trying with all his might to keep his next words inside, though they want to burst out of him.

Eventually, Stiles feels himself drifting off into that place between sleep and reality, where everything is fuzzy, and nothing has ever been clearer.

"I wish you loved me. Even half as much as that."

\---

Stiles wakes alone.

It _doesn't_ surprise him, he tells himself, but it also feels like a knife twisting in his gut. Every time he wakes up and Derek isn't there--which is _every_ time--he hates himself a little more, feels just a little more empty. It was supposed to be easy, this thing between them, casual. But he had feelings, and Derek didn't, and he thought it was better to have some of Derek than none of him, but he was wrong.

It has to end.

His heart rate speeds up, and his skin is clammy and claustrophobic. The walls of Derek's loft are closing in on him, forcing him out; even they know Derek doesn't want him here. He can't breathe, he can't _breathe_ , and all he wants is one more inhale of Derek's scent before he shows himself the door, but he can't breathe.

Then it isn't the walls closing in around him, but Derek. And he can't _do_ this, but he _wants_. And Derek has his arms around him, holding him close like he's something precious, and Stiles just...

"I don't know what to do anymore," he says. His voice is scratchy, his breath hiccupping. He clings onto Derek, only because he knows he has to let him go.

"Come with me," Derek says, getting up.

Stiles stares. Derek is still naked, but it's the expression on his face that makes him look vulnerable.

 _I should go_ , he means to say.

"Ok."

Derek leads him up the stairs in the loft. Stiles has never been up there and that should be some kind of sign, but he's thinking too hard about bolting for the door, clothes be damned. He's not sure how much more he can take from Derek without breaking their cardinal rule of casualness. 

He catches an unusual flicker of light in his periphery, but Derek is turning to face him and taking up all of his attention. 

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," he says, before pushing Stiles gently into the bedroom, hands resting on Stiles' waist.

Every surface is decorated with lit candles. Tiny paper lanterns dance from the ceiling to the rhythm of the breeze through the open window. The room is bright and warm and cozy, the candlelight tossing brilliance and shadow across the turned-down bed.

Slowly, Derek moves to face him, takes Stiles' face between his hands.

"I do love you, Stiles. Half as much, twice as much, hell, ten times as much as that. I never wanted to leave you, I just couldn't be the one left behind."

\---

Stiles sinks down on Derek's cock, slowly stretching himself as he gets closer and closer to being filled. Their hands are linked, Stiles' pressing Derek's down into the mattress.

Their hearts beat in a syncopated rhythm, never matching, but filling in the empty spaces the other leaves wide open.

They come quickly, for once not holding out til the last possible second, or holding on because they know the other will be gone come morning.

\---

When Stiles wakes, he is not alone. The candles are out, though the lanterns remain lit. He closes his eyes again, listens to Derek's heartbeat. This time, he doesn't count the beats until he must leave, but knows instead that each beat is for him.

* * *


	4. Group D (with warnings)

72.  
 **Warnings: None**  
 **Pairing: Lydia/Allison**

* * *

73.  
 **Warnings:** cliche and unoriginal sappiness tbh  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

* * *

74.  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Pairing:** Sterek  
The Spark and the Wolf

* * *

75.  
 **Warnings:** None  
 **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

* * *

76.  
 **Warnings:** None  
 **Pairing:** Allison/Lydia

* * *

77.  
 **Warnings:** bondage, dub-con  
 **Pairing:** Derek/void!Stiles

* * *

78.  
 **Warnings:** gore, horror, choking, nudity  
 **Pairing:** Stiles x nogitsune!Stiles

* * *

79.  
 **Warnings:** Non-Con  
 **Pairing:** Scott/Void!Stiles

* * *

80.  
 **Warnings:** Possible dubcon  
 **Pairing:** Scott/Stiles/Nogitsune!Stiles

* * *


	5. Group A (without warnings)

1.  
He's pretty sure Danny recognizes him. 

He _hopes_ Danny recognizes him in spite of the dimly lit club. The only thing visible against the moving shadows of dancing bodies is the white body paint getting illuminated under the black lights. But Danny would definitely notice the runes Stiles had carefully painted on his chest and arms before coming to the club. 

The dropping bass pounds in Stiles' ears. The sweat dampens the hair at the back of his neck. He can't move an inch without rubbing against someone on the dance floor. He stops craning his neck in the hopeless pursuit of spotting Danny, and he gives in to the music. 

Stiles raises his arms to show off the runes and swivels his hips to the beat, pushing his ass back in an exaggerated move. A strong arm catches him around his waist and fixes him in place to rub right against the crotch of the man who caught him. 

He feels warm breath against his neck. “You want this?” It's Danny's voice in his ear.

Stiles grabs Danny's hand and brings it down to his own crotch, where he is so achingly hard that his affirmative answer is obvious. 

Danny pulls his hand from Stiles' grasp, and his fingers trail a path up Stiles' chest. Danny finds a nipple and pinches it, making Stiles arch his back. The motion pushes his ass even further against Danny, who Stiles can feel straining against his tight denim. 

The song changes. The bodies around them don't stop. 

As the beat picks up, the strobe lights come on, and all Stiles can see is the beautiful, stilted flickering of white shapes writhing and twisting. It's so much to take in that he closes his eyes and focuses until all he can feel is Danny's chest against his back and Danny's hand flicking open the button of his jeans and reaching down to grab his cock. 

No one will be able to see, Stiles knows, but the thought that they're doing this _here_ , out in public, is enough to make his pulse race faster and his breath get shorter. 

The grip on his dick is familiar, and the last bit of doubt flees Stiles' mind that Danny is the man behind him. 

He opens his eyes again to the buzz of sensation all around him. Stiles gets lost in the rhythm of the beat. His hips roll almost of their own accord as he thrusts into Danny's hand. All around him are swirling white images getting illuminated and then shrouded again by darkness at the whims of the lights and the smoke. 

He throws an arm up and grabs the back of Danny's neck. Their sweat mingles between their bodies, but Stiles wants him even closer. He wants every inch of Danny against him. Danny's hips start to move right along with his, and for a few blissful moments, it's like they're one being, gyrating to the music pulsing around them.

It doesn't last, but of course it can't last. Stiles needs to come, and Danny knows Stiles' body better than he knows his own. His hand picks up speed and pressure, squeezing Stiles just where he likes, rubbing his thumb on the underside of the head with every stroke. Danny's lips are at Stiles' neck, and the flick of a wet tongue against his hot skin makes Stiles shiver. 

A few more strokes and Stiles cries out. The music swallows his voice as Danny milks the last few drops of come from his pulsing cock. 

It takes Stiles a few moments to come back to himself and the dark room with the irradiated dancing shapes. 

He tucks himself back into his jeans while Danny smears the mess in his hand across Stiles' belly. His come will glow under the black lights, but it will blend in with the runes so no one but Danny will be the wiser. 

Stiles laughs as he turns around. His lips find Danny's immediately like a homing beacon drawing him out of the madness of the thrumming music and the club and the realization of what they just did, of what Danny just did _for_ him. 

“What about you?” Stiles has to shout so Danny can hear. 

“Later,” Danny shouts back. “You can pay me back when we get home.” 

“Deal,” Stiles says against Danny's lips. 

He throws his arms around Danny's neck, and together they dance.

* * *

2.

The light is bright, warm in direct counterpoint to everything else surrounding Stiles in his mind. The nogitsune has made everything dark and cold, and Stiles just needs some reprieve. He knows what awaits him in the light, though. Knows he won’t ever be able to leave once he steps foot in there. 

He finds another place to hide instead, dark and unwelcoming, but private. Stiles closes the door behind him. He isn't expecting the glowing blue eyes that come out of the darkness. 

...

"Where've you been?" Stiles asks. "I've needed you. Don't know what I'm doing."

"What makes you think I do?" Derek asks. "We're _all_ lost."

Stiles doesn't care how right Derek is. He's just relieved to see him. He closes the distance between them, wraps his arms around Derek. 

"Don't leave me."

"I won't," Derek says, his hands warm against the cold skin of Stiles' back where his shirt skimmed up. 

...

Derek doesn't leave, but Stiles does. He hears the nogitsune calling to him, voice gravelly, sending chills up Stiles' spine. 

"You don't have to go," Derek tells him. But Stiles _does_ have to. He can't stand the thought of the nogitsune finding Derek here, in this dark, hidden spot in Stiles' mind. Can't stand the thought of it using Derek against him the way it used Stiles' love of Scott. 

"I have to," he says, slipping out of the room with one last pleading look. 

_Don't go. Please don't go._

…

“You can’t do anything to save them, Stiles. Even your friends know you’re weak.”

Stiles looks down at his hands, imagines a greater strength in them than he has. The thought fades as quickly as it formulates. Stiles knows he isn’t strong in body.

He’s strong in mind, though, and he thinks he may be able to hang onto that.

…

It’s comfort. Derek is here for Stiles’ comfort, and Stiles uses him for that even though he knows it isn’t real. He pushes up onto his hands, putting space between his chest and Derek’s. He’s almost afraid to look, but he has to see. His gaze slides down to the space between them as he rolls his hips, sees their cock’s sliding together, and almost comes from the sight alone.

“Fuck,” Stiles hisses, slamming his eyes shut to block the view.

Derek slides his fingers through Stiles’ hair, whispers to him that it’s okay, it’ll be all right, but Stiles doesn’t think even imaginary Derek knows that.

…

"He'll be dead, too, you know? The former alpha. He's weakened and she knows it."

Stiles forces his body to cooperate despite the nogitsune's control. With shaking hands, he sets up the chessboard, hoping beyond all hope they'll decode his private message. 

_Keep Derek safe._

The nogitsune doesn't seem to understand, but its hold on him doesn't allow Stiles to betray its secrets. Stiles can't force his hand to cooperate when he tries to write Kate's name on the sticky note, so he settles for _Argent,_ prays that they grasp it. 

…

"You know this isn't real."

"Don't care." Stiles' voice echoes in the quiet, rolls off the walls of his own mind tinny and distant. "You're here now. That's what matters." He kisses Derek again, arches into every touch. 

Derek groans, thrusts up into Stiles. "You're so warm," he says, eyes closed, head tipped back. "Hot inside."

The comment snaps at Stiles' awareness, threatens to pull him out of this and into something dreadful. Stiles isn't hot _anywhere_. He's cold all over, inside and out, with the nogitsune occupying his space. 

He shakes off the thought and grinds his hips down. 

_Please stay. Just, stay with me._

...

"I’m not playing your games anymore." Stiles holds his breath against the stink of soiled bandages and rotting flesh. 

"Oh, you'll play, Stiles. You'll play, or they'll all die." 

Stiles’ own footfalls echo through the open room; bright, almost blinding lights shine from above. He curls his legs under him as he sits atop the Nemeton and stares down at the game board. 

_Scott,_ he thinks. _Derek, Lydia..._

Stiles can't lose. It's not an option. 

He's torn, shredded into pieces with part of him here, playing a game he doesn't know how to win, and part of him with Derek, hidden and safe. 

Stiles is only able to pull himself together, to regain the reins of his own sanity when he hears Scott's roar pulling at his will, tugging from inside Stiles like a force he doesn't recognize. 

Safe, aware, _warm._

* * *

3.  
Allison needs out of her head and nothing’s working - not practicing, not schoolwork. She fears if she runs any more laps she’ll run away and never look back. But she’s the _Argent Princess_ and she has responsibilities. 

(Disney movies lie. “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”)

So that’s where Allison’s at when she asks for help, for sex. Despite the fact she knows that what’s between her and Scott is ending, and having Isaac here will complicate matters, because he likes her as more than a one night stand, but right now she doesn’t care, and she trusts Lydia and their friendship will be unaffected by lust.

(She thought about an orgy, but honestly, five other people would be a bit greedy just for her.)

Allison picks Scott to go first; he knows the rhythms of her body well and he warms her up sweetly with his mouth, licking her inner lips and moving up her body to lap at her belly and tease her breasts. She gestures Isaac over so she can kiss him, and when he shyly asks, gladly mouths his balls and twists the head of his cock.

(Lydia watches with dark eyes and a knowing smirk from her place at Allison’s desk. In the faint light, Allison can see a sheen of wetness on Lydia’s panties and wonders what she has planned.)

Isaac scoots back when Scott looks up to ask if she’s ready. She simply hands Scott a condom and watches as he puts it on. Scott crawls eagerly up the bed to her and leans down to kiss her tenderly. He trails his hand along her side to rub along her hipbone.

When Allison arches up, Scott parts her inner folds and finally, guides his cock in. She just wants to enjoy the fuck, and she yanks his hips down hard so she can completely envelop his dick. She makes eye contact and sees that Scott is already blissed out so she gently starts to move, to guide his thrusting. He looks so wondrous she has to kiss him. They continue to kiss through his orgasm.

Isaac’s waiting on the far side of the room, and not only is he hard, but is also practically salivating at the sight of her, which is frankly very flattering. He says that watching her was one of the most beautiful things he’s seen. It doesn’t matter that she’s already flushed from exertion, at Lydia’s snort and Scott’s laugh, she blushes anyway. 

Isaac holds out a condom and shuffles his feet anxiously. He mutters that he’s not exactly sure what to do and attempts a smile at her. Allison grabs his hand and pulls him close. The astonished look on his face at the feeling of her rolling the condom up his cock is an image that will stay with her for a long time.

Allison pulls him in to sit beside her on the bed and goes to kiss him. She can tell he’s wired, pulls back a little bit. She lays him down on her pillows and straddles him, guides him into her. It doesn’t take long for Isaac to finish, but that’s okay, the way he looks into her eyes and smiles is the best reward. She’s already looking forward to the next time they can have sex.

When Allison is alone on the bed, Lydia is right there, peering into her eyes. Lydia has on a strap-on and is holding a small vibrator. Lydia smiles sweetly, viciously. Where anyone else would be apprehensive, Allison is excited. Lydia won’t let her take control like the boys will, and the thought is hot. 

Allison is almost holding her breath when she is physically turned onto her side. Lydia is careful guiding the dildo into her, but that is where any gentleness ends. Lydia fucks into her roughly and grinds the vibrator into her clit, forcing Allison to climax. 

When her breathing has finally calmed down and Lydia has wiped the two of them up, Allison looks around the room for the boys. Scott and Isaac are wide-eyed and huddled together in the corner. Allison gestures them over so they can all snuggle together. Scott and Isaac end up on one side of her, cuddled together like the wolves they are. Lydia has arranged Allison to her liking, making Allison the big spoon.

(But hours later, Allison is still awake. Will nothing quiet her foreboding, dark thoughts?)

* * *

4.  
“The PACK is responsible for over a thousand cyber violations, so Alpha, Kitsune, Void, Banshee, Huntress,” the Officer brought up a series of files on the screen across from Derek, grainy photos that could have been anyone followed by possible profiles “which one are you and where can we find the rest?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Derek’s smile was sharp. His hands were strapped to the arm of the dull silver interrogation chair in a room that had seen better days. 

“Bullshit,” the Officer had burnout veins mapping the right side of his face and was about as unfriendly as Downtown Officers got. “You dumped your hardware but still got PACK written all over,” he spat out. “We already sent your blood work to Corporate and as soon as you’re pegged in the system you’ll be spending the rest of your life in a dark hole in the ground.” He folded his arms across his chest “So why don’t you help yourself out a little.”

The lights flickered and Derek glanced away from them, watching the beats, _one_ , _one_ , _two_ _one_ , _one_. He didn’t smile; it was a near thing though. Derek flexed the muscles in his arms in preparation “You should really get your electricity checked.”

The room plunged into darkness and the door exploded inward with a bang.

\------------------------

“Holy crap,” Stiles tossed Derek his gear already moving to check that the hallway was empty. “That was awesome.” He touched the interface on his wrist, checking in with Scott and the others that he’d got the Wolf

Derek rolled his eyes as he got the ping. His own interface was locking into place, the world around Derek opening up just a little bit more than what we could hear and see. He was connected again to the others. 

Stiles was a warm presence at his side as they walked through the Blackout zone, Derek leading him around a now defunct checkpoint with a hand on his hip. The scanners were down but they couldn’t risk tripping anything if it had extra juice. 

“Where’s our exit point?” The night vision that his interface was relaying to his eyes kept flickering, the EMP Stiles had used even affecting their own equipment.

Stiles wrapped an arm around Derek’s waist. “Right about here and it’s less of an exit and more of a temporary layover.” He held out his other arm, a cable shooting into the ceiling. Derek clipped himself to Stiles as they shot up into one of Stiles Illusions, his specialty.

\------------------------

The space was small, shaped more like a closet than anything else and Derek could feel where Stiles was pressed up tightly against him. The Armor was ridged but flexible, conforming to their bodies enough that the close quarters weren’t uncomfortable. Most Armor was stiff and heavy, not Lydia’s. She designed them to fit like a second skin.

“Okay, so the Blackout is timed to last for an hour, we could clear out now but standard procedure means they’re going to expect that and are swarming the area. Once an hour past most of them will be out there looking for you.” Stiles breathed against his neck, voice soft.

Derek nodded, pressing his nose into Stiles neck to inhale his scent “They sent a sample of my blood to the Corporate.” Derek didn’t need to tell him what happened to Werewolves once they were discovered.

“Scott intercepted it.” Stiles promised turning his head and their lips where meeting in a soft kiss. “A week Derek…” Stiles sounded broken. Derek had been picked up in a raid. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek kissed him back harshly hands going for Stiles belt “let me make it up to you.” He pulled back in the space given to give Stiles a soft smile “An hour right?”

Stiles eyes widened with adrenaline and lust “Oh yeah, yes please.” He let Derek press him against the wall and Derek fell to his knees gracefully in front of him. He let out a soft moan as Derek’s mouth engulfed his dick, cutting off the feed from his interface that was sending back his heart rate to Lydia and the rest of the PACK. Some things they preferred to keep private.

\------------------------

The street around them flashed to life in blinding lights and billboards as they exited the downtown holding cells, a system reset. Stiles only looked a little dazed, zipper half way undone, and his hand wrapped in Derek’s.

Derek looked more than a little smug.

* * *

5.  
Derek held back a smile when Chris answered the door in nothing but a towel.

"Come in," Chris said, stepping aside. "Just got back from a run and need a quick shower before we go. I have a few books open on my desk if you want to look while you wait." Derek thought it looked like Chris gave him a once-over before he turned. "More on the Nogitsune."

Derek nodded and headed into Chris's office, glancing quickly over his shoulder as Chris disappeared into the bathroom. He sat and picked up one of the books, unable to focus as soon as he heard the shower start. He set the book on the desk and ran his hand over the outline of his cock in his jeans. Chris did something to him he couldn't explain, and he was struck with an idea. It was risky, but he'd been waiting for too long. He could never just tell Chris how he felt; he wasn't great at explaining his emotions.

He stood and flipped off the light in the office, wandering through the apartment making sure every room was dark. He moved quickly and all that was left was the light in the bathroom where Chris was showering. Moving slowly and quietly, he stopped with his back against the wall right outside the bathroom. Chris left the door open. He took in a deep breath and let it out before reaching through the door and pushing down the switch.

"Derek?" Chris called. "Is that you?"

"It's the power," Derek answered, suddenly hoping there were no other electronics in the bathroom to give him away. He didn't see any light through the doorway, but he didn't have the best view of the whole room. "Lights are out in the whole apartment."

"Damn it," Chris yelled. "I'll have to check the breaker box. I'd ask you but it's locked up."

"No, wait," Derek said as he moved to stand in the doorway. "It's dark and you're wet. Let me come in and help you to it. I can see better in the dark anyway."

There was a moment of silence in which Derek assumed Chris was considering his offer. "Okay," Chris replied. "There's a towel on the rack by the door."

Derek kicked off his shoes and stepped into the bathroom, not even acknowledging the towel. He opened the door to the shower and smiled to himself when he saw Chris standing there. He couldn't make him out perfectly but he could see enough to know that Chris was sporting a semi - a fact that caused Derek's cock to press against the fabric of his jeans.

"I got you," Derek whispered as he reached in and put one arm around Chris's shoulder and the other on his bare ass. He pulled Chris toward him, allowing his hand to slide across Chris's ass cheek so that a finger was pressed lightly against his hole. Derek could feel Chris's body tense at the sensation and heard him gasp.

"Derek, your finger-- it's--"

"I know," Derek answered. "Is that o--"

"Fuck, Derek," Chris said before Derek could even ask his question. He leaned back so that Derek's fingertip pushed inside of him. "It's more than okay."

Derek took his free hand from Chris's shoulders and unzipped his pants. "I don't have any--"

"On the shelf next to me," Chris said. "Clear bottle."

"You keep lube in your--"

Chris reached back and put a finger to Derek's lips. "Stop talking. I've waited long enough for this already. Just wet your cock and let's go."

Derek grinned. He was glad to know that Chris wanted this just as much as he did. And there was something both amusing and incredibly hot about Chris taking charge of the situation and almost begging for his cock. Without another word, Derek did as instructed, pouring some of the liquid on his hand and stroking himself until he was well-coated. "Don't I need to--"

"Already ready." Chris shook his head. "Just go." He bent over, bracing himself using a bar on the inside of the shower door.

Derek wanted to ask why Chris was already prepped for him, but he was supposed to stop talking. He put his hands on Chris's hips and pushed into him slowly. "Fuck," he muttered. "So much better than I imagined."

"Me, too," Chris whispered.

Derek smiled as he leaned forward to kiss the back of Chris's neck. This had gone much, much better than planned.

* * *

6.  
Stiles loved mornings. He didn't used to. Mornings meant dragging his ass out of bed after little to no sleep to go to school. But, now he was eighteen and it was summer and mornings meant waking up most of the time next to his super hot boyfriend.

Who really, really liked morning sex.

The sun streaming in the eastern facing windows of the loft woke Stiles slowly. Warm and fuzzy feeling, he stretched and yawned and then rolled over into the sunbeam and half onto Derek who blinked drowsily at him before closing his eyes again.

Not surprisingly, Derek was not a morning person--creature of the night and all--but he was not adverse to being awakened while the sun was still rising if it was done right.

Stiles sliding down his body, tongue trailing over his skin, twirling around his nipples, licking down his treasure trail, was definitely doing it right. Folding his arms behind his head to prop himself up a bit, Derek watched from beneath hooded eyes as Stiles started sucking little hickeys into the taut skin of his hips. It felt good, the bite of pain fading quickly to pleasure as the marks themselves faded.

"They fade too fast," Stiles complained, sucking harder on one hip.

"Still feels good."

Startling, Stiles looked up and flushed. "Didn't know you were that awake yet."

"Not sleeping through this." Derek gave him a small smile and spread his legs so Stiles could slip comfortably between them and down a bit farther until he was propped up over Derek's cock, which was half-hard just from the kisses.

"Time for breakfast." Stiles grinned as Derek rolled his eyes, but it didn't deter him from wrapping his tongue around the tip of his cock, getting it nice and wet before sliding sucking kisses down the shaft. Nuzzling into his balls, he pressed his tongue to Derek's perineum and was rewarded with a groan. As he wrapped one hand around the base of his cock and pumped upwards, he lapped at his balls until Derek squirmed.

Grinning, Stiles looked up at his flushed face. "Yes?"

"Are you going to play all morning?"

"Maybe?"

Derek growled and it sent a shiver of desire through Stiles, but not one of fear, never of fear anymore. Derek liked morning sex but he didn't like dawdling over it. Once he was awake, he wanted to get his day started. It was just one of the little quirks Stiles loved about him.

"Stiles..."

"Yeah, yeah, pushy." His hand resumed pumping and his tongue started following the movement, up and down the shaft until finally it jumped over his knuckles and his mouth sucked in the tip. Derek was fully erect now, so, holding himself up on his free hand, Stiles opened his mouth wide and took him to the edge of his throat.

"Jesus..."

Stiles no longer had a gag reflex.

Grinning around the cock in his mouth he sucked and licked and squeezed his throat muscles around the tip, before pulling back to catch a breath and doing it all over again and again.

Five minutes of that was all it took for Derek to lose control and pump his hips up as he spilled in Stiles' mouth and down his chin. Stiles swallowed what he could, then licked him clean before resting his cheek on Derek's trembling thigh.

The sun warmed his back, and, in the light of the day Derek gave him a happy smile before reaching down to drag him up for a kiss and a hand job.

Yeah, mornings were awesome.

* * *

7.  
"Listen, Scotty, we both know your history with Stiles," Nogitsune spoke, tapping his temple. "So I'm going to tell you what I want, and you're going to give it to me, understand?"

Scott swallowed roughly, but nodded. He wanted to fight back, to lash out with teeth and claws, but he couldn't hurt Stiles. He knew he was trapped in there somewhere, his own personal hell.

"Such a good Alpha," Nogitsune hummed, caressing long fingers along Scott's cheek, sending a shiver of revulsion down his spine. Normally he would welcome the touch, but this wasn't Stiles.

"Why’re you doing this?" Scott asked, watching the familiar features, seeing none of the brightness he normally saw in Stiles. Only darkness.

"You know why." Hot breath washed over Scott's face as Nogitsune leaned close, capturing his mouth with chapped lips, tongue pressing in as Scott struggled against instinct to give in. "I like pain... strife," he murmured, pulling back, tugging Scott's bottom lip between teeth that seemed sharper than they should.

Scott whimpered, but didn't push him away. He let those fingers grip the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. "I thrive off this," Nogitsune whispered in Scott’s ear, fingertips moving over his skin, lingering on sensitive places only Stiles knew.

Nogitsune reached for the fly of Scott’s jeans, working them open. Scott hated how his body responded to the touch, cock straining at his boxer-briefs as his jeans were pushed down. "Look at you, so eager," he said, shoving down his underwear.

Nogitsune gripped Scott’s chin, forcing him to look at him. "You're going to suck Stiles' dick, Scott. I'm going to fuck your mouth… make you choke. And the best part is," he pushed Scott to his knees. "You're going to love it."

Scott paused, eyes level with the bulge in his jeans. Nogitsune made an impatient sound and Scott swallowed the lump in his throat, his stomach sick with the knowledge of what was happening. 

Scott reached out with trembling fingers, tugging open Nogitsune’s jeans and pulling them down with his boxers. He watched as his cock fell free, heavy and leaking pre-come. Normally, his mouth would be watering at the sight, he'd nuzzle in against the coarse hairs at the base, reveling in the familiar scent. He couldn't do that now, knowing what he knew.

"Open your mouth for me," Nogitsune encouraged, fingers threading through his hair. Scott complied, leaning forward to wrap his lips around the head of his dick, tongue lapping at the underside the way he knew Stiles liked.

Nogitsune's fingers tightened in Scott's hair and suddenly he was thrusting roughly into Scott's mouth. Scott made a sound that was choked off as Nogitsune pressed at the back of his throat. He couldn't breathe, barely holding it together while Nogitsune fucked into his mouth, taking the pleasure that Scott would freely give Stiles. He gasped when he could, lungs burning with each hard fought breath, only to have it stopped short by the thick cock pushing back down his throat, deeper with each thrust.

Tears were streaming down Scott's cheeks and his jaw ached as he struggled to give Nogitsune what he wanted, trying to swallow down his length. He whined as Nogitsune’s thrusts became almost violent, the fingers in his hair tugging painfully as he claimed Scott's mouth. And through this ordeal, Scott’s body betrayed him, his cock aching to be touched, leaking all over himself like he was _enjoying_ it.

Scott felt Nogitsune’s hips stutter, his rhythm lost. He did everything he knew to make him come, tongue and throat working his cock. Then suddenly the hand was gone from his hair, Nogitsune’s cock pulled abruptly from his mouth before he felt the hot splatter of come painting his face, spilling on his tongue. To Scott's shame, that was what dragged him over, untouched, his own come coating his bared stomach and chest.

Scott glanced up at Nogitsune, the returned gaze darker than Stiles' ever was. "You're mine now, wolf." He reached down, smearing his thumb through the come on Scott's cheek, shoving it into his mouth until Scott sucked it clean. Nogitsune watched with obvious interest before disgust colored his features, pulling his thumb from Scott’s mouth. "Disgusting," he spat. "Go clean yourself." He turned and sprawled across a chair, not bothering to tuck himself away. It was the last thing Scott saw before he disappeared into the bathroom to scrub away the loathing he felt for himself.

* * *

8.  
Scott dramatically declares it their 'last summer' a few weeks before college starts, which turns out to be code for 'lets spend every afternoon lounging by Lydia's pool'. 

"Hello, Stiles."

Where apparently Peter is now welcome too. 

"Thirty seconds." Lydia's voice is anything but welcoming, but it's calm. Stiles doesn't bother to open his eyes. Peter casts a cool dark shadow where he blocks the glaring sun from Stiles, he knows where he is.

"Fine. I tracked the omega to the Fountain Motel, room 34. No sign of her but I'll stay out there for a few days in case she comes back."

"Thanks," says Scott, and "I appreciate you helping like this," but Stiles just snorts. 

"He's making himself useful," Scott says when Peter's gone. "I can't-- even Derek thinks--"

"No, it's fine. I think." He squints at where Lydia is making herself comfortable again on her lounger, and she gives him a nod and a quick smile. "It's fine."

 

This isn't fine at all.

Scott would not be okay with this. Lydia would not be okay with this. _Derek_ would not be okay with this, and he makes the worst decisions of anyone Stiles knows.

The motel is cleaner than he remembers, fresher looking. New owners, maybe. It doesn't look like the sort of place an omega as feral as the one they've been looking out for is supposed to be, but maybe they were misinformed.

Room 34 is easy to find.

 

After half an hour, the door opens.

"Shit." Stiles scrambles for the jeep keys, but he knows Peter's already seen him. He's expecting Peter to come over, take the keys off him, maybe rough him up a little.

He shivers.

Peter just gives him a wave, turns, and walks back inside.

What the--

The walk across the parking lot seems to take forever, but it can only be a few seconds. The door is still open, the only light the flickering TV and far-off street lamps.

"You come and report to Scott," Stiles says, hovering in the doorway. "But you always speak to me first. You look at me."

"You look back." Peter is closer than he expected. "Except today."

Stiles is the one who takes the next step forward, surprising himself.

"I've done enough looking," he says, and his hands are on Peter's shoulders, fingers sliding around to grasp his neck, and he's stumbling into a bruising kiss that ends with Stiles pressed against the wall, gasping curses into Peter's mouth.

"Fuck," he stutters out, because Peter's hand is in his jeans, the zipper down in a heartbeat and Stiles has had his fumbles with girls but they'd been as inexperienced as each other, and the hand on his dick right now knows exactly what it's doing.

"I know what you want, Stiles," Peter says, stripping him efficiently, and maybe he does, because he sucks Stiles's dick down like he's been starving for it, using his tongue and just a little teeth that has Stiles stretching up on his tiptoes, shoulders scraping on the wall, jacking him with his hand when he needs to pull off.

It's messy when Stiles comes, with quick jerking thrusts of his hips. He can see streaks glistening across Peter's fist, across his face, his chest, and the hands on him are wet and sticky, smearing it across his hips.

"Sorry," he croaks, but he isn't, and he knows Peter knows that by the way he laughs. It's what he's thought about, when he's looked at Peter, as is the way Peter presses him down into the mattress after that, the way he preps him roughly but thoroughly, the way he mounts him, fucks him without finesse. 

"I can't stay," Stiles says after Peter shudders above him and comes. "My car, everyone knows it, and I've no excuse to be here."

"And I have a rogue omega to listen out for," Peter says, too lightly. 

"Right." Stiles nods, pulling on his t-shirt. "The feral omega who managed to book herself a motel room without eating the manager. I wonder how she did that, exactly?"

"You know werewolves, Stiles." Peter shrugs. "Never short on cunning. Speaking of which--"

Stiles pauses in the doorway. "What?"

"Next time," Peter says, wiping a smear of come off Stiles's face, "don't bring the jeep."

* * *

9.  
“C’mon, c’mon...” Stiles urges Derek closer, hands cupping his neck.

Derek kisses down his ear to his shoulder, pushing off his threadbare vest to get his mouth on Stiles’ chest. It slips to the ash-covered ground, mingling with the dust and dirt. Stiles makes note of where it lays. Useless as it is for warmth during the nightly chills, it’s something to protect him from the daily waste-storms.

The night allows him a different kind of protection.

Hard muscle, coated with soot, presses against him.

Cracked concrete surrounds them, planks of rotted wood collapsed into the skeletal remains of family room. Stiles assumes that’s what it is, crushing Derek against some type of soft chair, a layer of powder coming up in clouds. His dad once described to him the cushioned seats made for families set in family rooms of people’s homes, when they had fixed homes instead of encampments. He’s sure Derek’s never seen anything like it either, a roofed shelter a luxury they can risk only for tonight.

Derek rumbles low in his throat, the sound vibrating through Stiles’ skin. “Take everything off.”

Stiles flails, gasps hard, attempting to follow Derek’s order, eager to display himself, watches as Derek takes off his leather jacket, exposing broad shoulders and cords of muscle molded from routine training the Corps enforces for all its soldiers.

The jacket is folded neatly, put aside meticulously. Stiles smirks. “It’s not made of glass,” Stiles says.

“I take care of gifts.” Derek brushes excess ash off the seat and sits, cock pulled out and laid stiff on his stomach. He motions for Stiles to come.

Stiles smiles and straddles his lap, their hands entwining, cocks slicking each with the other’s precome. Stiles groans.

“Is that why you _fuck_ me so carefully?” He accentuates his point, forces his hips forward in a hard pitch.

Derek growls. “I’ll show you careful, if you stop riding against my dick and start riding _on_ it.” He pushes two fingers between Stiles’ open lips, urging him to suck on them, then quickly pulls them out to finger Stiles’ pucker.

“Message received.” Stiles shudders. “Loud and clear--Der--ah!”

Derek’s finger catches in his hole, dipping in slightly, but returns to circling the outside just as Derek kisses down his collar, biting and sucking his teats in long, soft nips.

Stiles pants. “Explosions make you so horny...”

The friction of Stiles’ cock against Derek’s trail of stomach hair, feels too good. He throws his head back in a moan, Derek’s arm bearing his weight, focuses on the warm splay of Derek’s hand on his spine, his gaze on the bits of ceiling still intact. Some of the charcoal sky is still visible. A finger breeches him fully, and suddenly the sky is dotted with little white lights.

Like the stars, his mother once explained, that existed before the Rapture happened. Before the sky became an overcast cloud of black and brown and grey.

His body trembles as Derek brings his seed from Stiles’ cock to his mouth, kissing away the residue. Derek strips more from him, uses it to wet his own dick, slicking against Stiles’ taint. If they were born in a different time, a different stratum, Stiles thinks, the seed could have taken, become more than just another pollutant to indulge in.

Stiles feels Derek smoothing hands all over him, over his shorn head, his body, naked for him. Still so careful. The thought makes his dick twitch again.

“That was quick.” Derek grins, shifting Stiles to bear down on his cock.

Stiles grips Derek by the ears, breaths fast and harsh. The dust in the air is close to choking; he buries his face in Derek’s neck, layered with sweat and cinder.

They thrust against each other, reach as deep, as close as they can make themselves.

“The broadcasts have probably started,” Stiles puffs, “Bets on them claiming another PCon testing?”

The Corps maintain that unannounced detonations are “pollution containment” field testings, so civilians don't suspect an insurgency.

Derek grunts. “Shh, don’t--just--”

Stiles understands, wraps himself around Derek tightly until he feels a hot gush of liquid inside, clenches his hole for Derek, riding the waves to milk Derek’s cock of all his come.

They razed the Corps' main research facility tonight. Brought the Insurrection to the Corps' full and undivided attention.

For now, that they’re still alive, still together, is all the victory they need.

* * *

10.

Stiles stared into the mirror in his room, his vision hazy and his understanding of what was going on something he had to claw his way toward. It was always like this; each time the Nogitsune loosened the reins enough for Stiles to take control. This time was unlike most of the others, though. Stiles was unable to fully grasp control. Instead, all he could was watch and hear things he’d never witnessed before. 

“Stiles,” the Nogitsune said, voice rasping and sounding foreign to Stiles’ own ears. “So much want inside you, so much need. Do you even realize the darkness that thrives? Or, do you like to pretend that it isn’t there?” 

Watching in horror and unable to do anything about it, Stiles saw his tee shirt tug up and disappear before his own hand reached up to tweak his right nipple hard. Stiles gasped, an action that was echoed by the Nogitsune in the mirror. 

“So many dark, dirty thoughts in your mind, Stiles,” the Nogitsune said, tugging harder at Stiles’ nipple. He left it sore and red before moving on to Stiles’ other nipple. This time the Nogitsune licked a finger and toyed with the nipple until it stood out hard and shining wet. “Do the people around you know just how twisted you are?” 

Stiles gasped in his own mind, unable to fight the movements of his own body. He felt the Nogitsune’s delight in his discomfort and wished he could fight it off, wished that he wasn’t giving it the pain and strife it craved. 

The Nogitsune laughed, low and mean. “So many dark thoughts about Derek, Stiles. There’s so much you want to do to him; ways you want to have him at your mercy, teasing and torturing his orgasms out of him. Does he know, Stiles? Is that why he’s been staying away? Can he tell what you want?” The Nogitsune tugged open Stiles’ jeans, pulling them down to his thighs along with his boxers. 

_No!_ Stiles cried, watching his bare body respond. The Nogitsune had a front row seat to all the things Stiles liked and wanted, using them all against him in vile fashion. _My fantasies aren’t real. I would **never** do that._

“Oh yes, you would, if given half the chance, Stiles,” the Nogitsune laughed loudly, the rasping sound leaving Stiles cringing. The Nogitsune reached down with Stiles’ right hand, curling his fist around Stiles’ cock and stroking him to hardness. It doesn’t take much, or take long before Stiles is hard and leaking, his body betraying his mind. “Now Lydia’s an interesting one. You feel for her so purely and yet there are vivid images in your mind of what she looks like spread out before, your face buried deep in her pussy.” The smirk gracing Stiles’ face looked cruel and he cringed away from it, unable to hide when the Nogitsune wants him present. He watched his own hand stroke, slow and steady at first before speeding up, the curling tendrils of his orgasm gathering in his gut even while he fought off the inevitable. 

Stiles watched, hopeless. His body responded to everything the Nogitsune did and, soon, all Stiles could see was his hips rocking, his cock leaking and his skin flushed red from his face all the way down his chest. He fought against it, trying his best to hold it off, but it was all for nothing when his orgasm overtook his body, his come spurting over his hand and onto the floor in front of him. 

“Oh yes, Stiles. I’m going to have so much fun here in your fantasies,” the Nogitsune taunted while Stiles sobbed and wept inside his own head, hoping against hope that his friends would either save him or put him out of his misery. At this point, Stiles wasn’t sure which one he actually wanted. 

* * *

11.  
He rolls his hips and thrusts up again, again, but it doesn't mean anything, doesn't _do_ anything for him. The fire that used to consume him is long extinct. The more people he fucks, the more his heart ices over, and yet, he can't stop. He seeks another partner as soon as he has washed off the smell of the previous in a never-ending search for a fulfillment he knows is dead and buried with his past. 

This guy he picked up at a bar was promising. Now, reduced to moans and squirms and panting, he gives him nothing more than a tight clench of muscles and a light scratch of fingernails, just as meaningless as the rest. Smooth, milky skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and a scent that almost resembles _the one_ still make him a good choice—but it's not enough. It's never enough.

Growling low in his throat, he grabs the man's hips, rolls them over, fucks him so hard and deep that the moans become tinged with pain. He barely notices, is too desperate for a flicker of that bliss, for someone who can erase the memory, maybe even negate the loss. Neither of these things is possible, but somehow, deep inside, that contents him. He _likes_ to ache. He _deserves_ to suffer.

The man underneath him writhes and pushes at his chest. “You're hurting me,” he bites out, and it's only then that he slows down. Clenching his jaw, he forces himself to focus on his anchor, lest he wolf out. The last time this happened, it ended with too much blood and a guilt that still clenches his heart. He's been through enough nightmares for two lifetimes and doesn't need any more.

He kisses an apology on soft lips, writes it on broad shoulders with a ghosting touch of fingertips, and the stranger relaxes. They build a slow-rocking rhythm, making love without attachment. It's dissatisfying. Frustration rises with every thrust until it chokes him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, like bile and heartache, like rotten food and a truth denied.

The stranger comes, but he doesn't. It's okay. He rarely does.

~ ~ ~

The water burns him faster than the healing can repair any damaged tissue. It's delightful, reminiscent of another werewolf's warmth against him when they're both wounded and worn out from battle. He doesn't break his own skin, not tonight, although he longs to bleed, longs to destroy—eradicate—everything that feels like the home so far away, or the pack that is no longer.

Peace of mind, however, requires more than just a wish.

Braced against the steaming hot tiles with one hand, he grabs his cock with the other, starts stroking himself with too much pressure too roughly. Pleasure, although it keeps him alive these days, doesn't come with gentle touches. It demands pain. He cups his balls, squeezing hard until he can't bite back a howl, and the sound triggers the memories. They flood him unfiltered, hitting with so much force that his legs almost give out.

Running under the full moon, with his pack, with his mate. The first heat together: growling, biting, fucking so hard that he thinks there must be blood, but there isn't: only the pleasure of the knot, the delight of belonging, being safe and warm in his mate's arms forever. Forever ending abruptly in violence and bloodshed and he, responsible for the tragedy, fleeing the scene, fleeing his past and his pack and everything that once was good in his life.

Tears run down his cheeks, mix with the water and disappear unnoticed. His cock twitches as if to escape, but he doesn't let go, can't stop until the physical pain exceeds the emotional ache. He comes, panting, hurting so thoroughly that the intensity threatens to overpower him. When he catches his breath, he turns off the hot water, stands under the cold spray until his mind is calm too.

He dresses and goes back out, hunting for another partner, hunting for another chance to feel free. 

One day, when all his sins are forgiven, he'll be whole again, but until then, he lives in self-imposed purgatory.

* * *

12.  
The sharp click of heels on concrete as it echoed from further down the alleyway shouldn't have been as menacing as it was but Erica was no fool. Injured as she was there was no way she could handle another fight without using her full strength and to do that would bring down the wrath of the Host and she wasn’t quite ready for that. Not yet, not with the hunger riding her hard and threatening to reduce her to mindless savagery. The risk was too great.

She was meeting an original daughter of Lilith, a true monster like herself, and equally powerful. If she’s decided not to help, if Erica even managed to survive the encounter there would be no recapturing her prey and she’d be twice-damned before allowing the loss of such prize. The Malach brought in for “readjustment” was HER toy and she did not share. Erica ignored the terrifyingly human feeling of guilt that made itself known just then. They would not have taken him back if it hadn’t been for their unnatural attachment to each other.

“Sister.”

The world spun and grew dim at the word, such was the power Lydia held, and for a moment Erica felt the fires of damnation welcoming her home. The Banshee had named her sister though and so the tension bled from her body in an alien rush of relief leaving her to slouch weakly against the nearest wall. “Good to see you too Red,” she groaned.

Lydia’s ignored her, head tilted with interest as she took in Erica’s drained state. “You need to feed? Excellent."

“So glad to oblige. I’m touched that the threat to my existence fits so neatly into your plans,” she drawled sarcastically.

“You’re the one who had the audacity to ensnare a member of the Angelic Host and make him a permanent addition to your food pyramid Succubitch. Do you have any idea how many factions you’ve pissed off for being so bold? For being as successfully dangerous as our mother?” Lydia hissed and moved to drag her further down the alley where a shamefully luxurious Lamborghini idled there waiting for them. “All of them,” she answered for her, ignoring Erica’s sullen silence before adding, “and I respect that.” 

Erica didn't have a chance to respond before she’s shoved into the backseat and against the tallest drink of water she’s seen from humanity in a long time. The aesthetics of his amber eyes and undoubtedly nimble hands were nothing compared to the thundering vibrancy of his spirit. It was a pale imitation of Boyd’s holy fire and completely unheard of in a human. Logic dictated that the human body is not made to contain such glory, but there it was and it called to her. 

“This is Stiles, our secret weapon. He’s going to help us take down that self righteous prick of a general and get our property back. Gerard hasn’t realized it yet but he’s tainted and there isn’t a soul on this plane that I can’t find that’s been tainted,” Lydia informed her. When Erica didn’t respond to that right away she added, “that doesn’t mean he’s off limits.”

Stiles eyes gleamed and his mouth quirked with sinister humor. “Nice to meet you. I have my own agenda here but if you need a hit I don’t mind taking one for the team.”

“Wha--” and then it hit her, “ _Nephilim_ ,” she breathed. Then she was on him, the hunger an ache that made it impossible to do more than straddle his lap and kiss him at first. Energy sparked between them like the world’s tiniest electric storm as her body healed itself and the world became vibrant and lush again to her senses.

Her prey barely had breath to gasp and even less to groan, shocked, when she finally shoved open his pants and hiked her skirt up to settle down for a real meal. Distantly she noted that he looked good with his mouth open like that, stained by the apple red of her lipstick. She shivered, and basked in his wintergreen flavor as she fitfully kneaded at his shoulders and waited for her pheromones to overwhelm him.

“This is going to be so fast, I’m so sorry,” he eventually rushed out in a garbled mess, hands trembling where they clung to her hips.

“Good,” she hissed, pleased, and fed.

* * *

13.  
Stiles wakes to a warm mouth press soft, wet kisses along his neck. He feels a naked body pressed up against his own, a cock pressed against his ass and a hand on his hip. He moans, shifting back to press closer.

His eyes blink open.

When he fell asleep, the curtains on the window were open and the evening sun was shining through, warming his skin. It’s long since set now, he knows, and though he can’t see, he also knows that the curtains are closed. His husband leaves nothing to chance; their room is always pitch black when Derek is there with him.

“I missed you,” Derek whispers, moving up to rub his nose behind Stiles’ ear.

The breath on his neck makes him shudder. He reaches back, feeling along Derek’s body until his fingers plunge into soft, thick hair and then tightens his grip, pulling forward until their lips meet, hungry and desperate.

Derek pushes him onto his back, crawling over him until his body is cradled between Stiles’ thighs, their cocks rubbing together lazily as they kiss. Stiles sighs into his mouth, trailing hands over Derek’s arms and back and ass. He can never get enough of this; of Derek’s skin underneath his fingertips and their bodies pressed so tightly together, the two of them desperate to be close.

When he was a boy, Stiles feared the night for darkness could hide monsters and monsters were dangerous. He remembers, vividly, shielding himself with his covers and waiting for the sun to peek in through his windows, the rays poking through his shield to shine light on his pajamas. Back then, the sun was a protector, a friend.

Now that he’s grown, the night holds a different meaning for him. The night brings his husband back to him. It brings pleasure and closeness and contentment, the likes of which he can never find in the light of day now. Not when he knows what he’s missing; _who_ he’s missing.

Some call Stiles a fool. On his darker days, he even agrees with them. What kind of marriage is one where they can only be together in the cover of darkness? Where he doesn’t even know his husband’s face?

Even when he’s a fool, though, he is always a fool in love. Stiles does not know his husband’s face but he knows the shape of his body, the feel of his hands and skin. He knows the sound of Derek’s quiet laughter, the pleased rumble in his chest, his moans in the heat of passion. He knows the pace of Derek’s breath, can tell the difference between excitement and sleep and consciousness. He knows Derek’s dry humor, his ire, his insecurities.

Stiles knows everything about his husband, everything a spouse should, except for his face and the reason he hides it. He must have a reason, though, and Stiles trusts Derek enough to let him have this.

There is nothing lost between them in darkness. If anything, the impairment of sight makes every other sense heightened. Every shared breath more intimate, every touch electrified, every word a secret only the two of them share.

Derek pulls away slowly, pressing kisses all along his cheeks and jaw. Every so often, he bites and then laughs softly into the abused skin when Stiles’ hips buck beneath him.

Stiles squirms, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder. “How was your day?” He mumbles, genuinely interested in the answer even though he’s quickly getting distracted.

“Quiet,” Derek says as he slides down Stiles’ body. “I read a book.”

“ _Oh_.” Stiles gasps, arching when he feels a tongue on his cock. “W-what book?”

Derek laughs quietly. “I’ll tell you later,” he promises and then takes Stiles into his mouth.

Morning will come too soon as it always does and Derek will melt away with the last vestiges of darkness, leaving Stiles alone in their bed. The day will start and Stiles will rise for breakfast before exploring the home that Derek has given him, the castle that still holds so many secrets from him. He will laugh and joke and pretend that he isn’t waiting for darkness to fall again, for his husband to come back to him.

For now, Stiles enjoys the night while he has it; Derek never lets him get distracted for long, anyways.

* * *

14.  
It used to be enough on its own -- the blood sheeting through his fingers, sliding heavy off his wrists and up his arms. The heat of it soaking into his skin and the cuffs of his shirt, rolled up to his elbows and still not clear of the carnage. There’s so much warmth in a human body, so much life just waiting for him to drag it out. And the look in their eyes when he does…

Shock and surprise and fear and _release_. Like they’ve just been waiting for him to do it, too.

It’s its own reward, the killing, but it isn’t what fulfills him anymore. It’s not enough on its own. Not now that he knows it can be so much more devastating, so much more destructive. Not when his brutality of flesh pales in comparison with the way she shatters when he crawls in her window, red in his eyes and on his shoes and her perfect, trembling fear staring back at him. 

It used to be the stillness that got him hard, the way a body goes limp in the moment of death. The sudden vacancy, the _space_ where a soul used to be until he took it. The power and control of ending another person entirely.

But now it’s the moment their eyes meet across her bedroom and he gets to watch her fall apart all over again. All her carefully reassembled calm, the facade she puts on for the world, crumbling as if she really were made of porcelain. As if she really were some fragile thing when Peter knows more than anyone else just how strong Lydia Martin really is.

He pauses there, in the window frame. He always does, as if by not moving he can suspend them there in the moment. And it seems to work. A little. A very little. As if the world holds its breath each time he does, torn between what was and what is. What he’s done and what he’s going to do.

What she’s going to say.

How it’s going to feel when her sex clamps down on him as she comes.

Lydia swallows but refuses to blink, lifts her chin in defiance when she asks, “Who was it this time?”

“Does it matter?” he answers, climbing inside and shedding his coat. It feels natural to keep going, remove his shoes, shirt, pants, until he’s as bared to her as her soul is to him. Nowhere near as beautiful, of course, but that’s half of what gets him off. The idea of fucking someone as pure as her. So good. So moral. 

He loves watching her grapple with herself as she comes undone under him, over him. In his mouth and on his cock and the way she cries sometimes after.

Though her voice quakes, Peter can hear the steel in it when she says, “Yes.”

His breath catches in his chest looking down into those eyes. Those big, wet eyes that should look frightened (they do), should look petrified of the monster thumbing at her lip (they don’t), but what Peter sees when he looks into them is resolve.

It’s not a certainty. Not yet, but it is a promise of sorts. What might be one day. What she could become. He isn’t waxing poetic when he calls it steel in her voice. That’s what he hears, what she’s promised him.

He looks at Lydia Martin and sees his death shining back at him, pure as driven snow. She might love him one day, too, but it won’t stop her -- would never stop her from doing what she thinks is right. 

He slides his hand down to cup her jaw, threads his other into her hair and she makes this noise -- half sigh, half whimper -- and suddenly Peter’s thinking of nothing so much as the noise she’ll make when she wraps her hand around his heart and he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, he’s going to find out.

Some day. Maybe some day sooner than he thinks.

He’s not sure what he’s asking for when he says, “Please.”

* * *

15.  
He took care of his pack first, made sure everyone had a place to go. Boyd and Erica were with Boyd's family in LA. Scott was at home, doted on by Kira and his mom. Isaac had Allison, Chris. Everyone was protected, watched over, accounted for.

Everyone except him. 

Derek paces the floor, his windows darkening with evening gloom. He checks his hands impulsively, over and over. Flashing his claws. 

When the moon rises, he breaks out in shivers, has to lie down. 

He can sense the moment it happens, between one heartbeat and the next. He lets out a ragged breath. 

Everything's _dulled_.

He bears it for a long while alone, until there are footsteps in his hallway. 

He can't smell anything, can't see well enough to protect himself. Can only burrow into his bedding, whimpering high and pathetic.

"H-hey, Derek. God, shhhh, it's me--" 

_Stiles_. Derek lets out a whine, fights the blankets off.

Hands catch his face and Derek can't see, he can't _see in the dark_ , but that's quickly remedied when his bedside lamp switches on.

Derek sits there in that glaring light for a long time, squinting. 

"Dude, why are you hiding in the dark?" Stiles asks, and his face is just... _Stiles_. Derek faceplants on his knee in relief.

"Forgot the lamp was there. Never use it," Derek mutters, then makes a low, chest-deep sound when Stiles pets at his hair. 

"Scott told me, the eclipse? Your werewolf senses get all--?"

"--weak," Derek says, and then burrows his nose in the hinge of Stiles' knee, scenting deeply and barely pulling anything but the faint saltiness of sweat. 

"Jesus," Stiles sighs, petting his nape.

"Yeah," Derek agrees. 

They're quiet and then Derek rolls over, still squinting in the light, his eyes not adjusted yet. He frowns up at Stiles. "You came from school?"

Stiles blushes and it _hurts_ Derek that he can't scent that heat in his cheeks, or hear that rush of blood. 

"Scott said you'd need someone, so..." 

They've been dancing around this _want_ for the last few months, and it's unbearable not being able to breathe in the sweet, familiar pull of Stiles' desire.

Stiles is _looking_ at him with all this frustration and it makes Derek whine out a breath again, confused. " _Stiles_ , I can't smell you. Is this, do you--?" Derek says and Stiles swallows noticeably, hushes him.

"It's, _shit_. Just...I'm gonna lie down with you," Stiles says, "Ok?" He's toeing off sneakers before Derek can answer, unbuttoning his top flannel and dropping it on the floor. 

He gets under the blankets with Derek in just his skin-warm tee-shirt and sweatpants, his mouth parted for his breath. 

"Derek, you gotta tell me. Tell me if I'm wrong--" Stiles begs, leaning in slowly, mouth searching--

Derek makes a wounded sound of surprise into the kiss because his mouth is still _so sensitive_. The inner, silken drag of lips, the touch of Stiles' hot tongue, it's _electric_. Derek ends up fisting Stiles' hair with two hands, lifting up, chasing the feeling. 

When they finally break apart, they're both gasping. "Jesus, you're still so _strong_ \--" Stiles groans.

"My mouth feels good--" Derek tries, voice broken. He nuzzles into Stiles' neck, eats up all that peppery-warm skin helplessly. 

He closes his eyes and samples Stiles' body: his freckly throat, that little, tasty thatch of hair on his chest, those brown, pricked nipples, the sharp edge of his hip, the dark line of hair below his bellybutton where Derek can finally, _finally_ pull some scent. He ends up pressed there for a long time, inhaling. 

A trembly hand touches at his head. " _God, p-please_ ," Stiles breathes. 

Derek peels Stiles' sweats and underwear down over his tender stomach, mouth following. Eager, he catches the hot surge of that skinny cock between his lips.

Derek croons around the mouthful as taste explodes on his tongue. He twists into it, chasing the bitterness, head bobbing greedily.

Stiles digs fingers into the meat of his shoulder, into the back of his neck. 

"Ohfuck, oh _fuck_ \--" Stiles gasps, urgent.

When it comes, the flavor of Stiles' orgasm is so delicious, Derek groans and lets it fill the cup of his tongue, drenching his taste buds.

* * *

16.  
He found it while ridding his room of all trace of the Nogitsune. It was a DVD with _Just In Case_ written on it. 

Stiles only remembers some of the things that happened while he was possessed, mainly what _it_ wanted him to see. The recollection of twisting that blade in Scott still made him sick. 

Shaking off the memory, he walked over to his laptop and popped the DVD in. They were video files, three of them, time stamped over the period of a month. Last month.  
________

“Hey Dad, I just wanted to show you what I’ve been so secretive about lately. Hope you enjoy.” Stiles—no, the Nogitsune—winked and smiled at the camera. 

The scene shifts to his bed and Stiles is on his hands and knees moaning while Deputy Parrish eats him out??? 

He paused the video and tried to process what he’s seeing. He moves the cursor to a different point in the video and when he presses play he sees himself, straddling his father’s newest deputy and riding him.

Stiles closes the video and tries not to let the tears threatening to escape, fall. 

That was his first time. 

That fucking demon _stole_ his virginity.  
________

For a long while after that, Stiles stares at the remaining two videos. Debating if he should watch them or just delete them all. 

In the end, he decides to watch them. Better to know what the fox did than be caught off guard in the future. 

He clicked on the second video and another message from the fox comes on.

“Hey Scottie, this is for you.” The demon winked and the screen went black and then a strange room came into view. He hears a girl giggling and suddenly there he was, making out with Kira on her bed. 

They were both moaning into the kiss and grabbing each other desperately. The fox put his hands under Kira’s skirt and the Kitsune let out a sharp cry. 

Stiles closed the video, rubbed his face and pulled his hair as hard as he could with out actually hurting himself.

He couldn’t imagine how much that video would hurt his best friend and that fucking spirit did it with the intention of _showing it_ to Scott.

Stiles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He clicked on the next video before he talked himself out of it.

Like the rest, it begins with a message. “Hey Derek, I just wanted to tell you that you took too long.” 

The fox was on his knees, _oh God_ , blowing _Peter_. The older wolf had his hands in Stiles’ hair and kept thrusting into his mouth while growling out Stiles’ name. 

Stiles fast-forwarded the video to see what else happens without actually watching the rest. He sees that at some point Peter picked him up and started to fuck him up against the wall and he closed the video, took out the DVD and snapped it in half.  
________

The knock on the window later that night brought Stiles back from wherever his mind had wandered, he nodded and Derek came into his room.

“Are you ok?” Derek asked.

“Why do you ask?” His voice sounded hoarse. 

“Because you smell like grief. What happened?” 

Stiles looks over at the broken CD on his desk and shakes his head.

After a few moments Stiles asked, “We have a thing, right?” The wolf looked confused at the question. “I mean, you and I—we—you like me, right?” 

Before Derek could answer Stiles walked up to him until their chests touched and refused to let the Nogitsune take this away from him. He _refused_ to give that demon any power over him.

He took Derek’s hand in his and leaned in slowly, giving Derek time to pull away or to stop him, and kissed him. It was short and chaste, but a perfect first kiss. 

He took a step back to see Derek’s reaction but the wolf grabbed Stiles by the waist and kissed him again, this time it was deep and Derek’s lips were so soft and it felt _so good_. They broke apart to get some air and Derek brought their foreheads together.

“Yeah, Stiles, I like you.” He gave Stiles one of his rare smiles and Stiles’ stomach gave a flip at that confession. 

“Derek, I want _you_ to be my first everything.”

* * *

17.  
Sometimes, Stiles scratches himself. Like he’s got bug bites or chicken pox or spiders crawling under his skin. He can feel them, count them, claws in his veins, water in his nerves, snakes slithering through his skeleton. He pulls at his skin, stretches at his muscles, contorts his bones until he can’t feel them anymore: all he can feel is the hurt there, thawing him, calming him, making him human again. He remembers being a fox like a bad taste in his mouth, blood and ash, blood and ash.

Sometimes, Stiles asks Scott to scratch him, on the nights that Stiles can’t reach deep enough. Can’t get far enough into himself, arms angry and red and stinging, crying, his whole body wondering when this will end while his mind goes on hurting. Tracks left either in his head or his flesh, angry and red.

And sometimes, Scott will say yes. Sometimes, he’ll hold Stiles with his claws out. He’ll answer that horrible, wretched voice that wells in Stiles’ throat when his brain just won’t stop squirming in his head. They’ll make a mess of Stiles’ body, opening him up in all the places that drive him the maddest, drain the crazy out of him.

Almost always, they do this while Scott is fucking him. Like it’s better that way. The first time Stiles asked him, there was hesitance, disgust. Storms as the alpha prowled for blood, but Scott said no. Not really remembering how hard it actually is to say no to Stiles.

He doesn’t argue anymore. He fights himself, but he can’t fight Stiles. Instead, he puts long lines into Stiles’ arms and legs, along his back, blood swelling to the surface, him finally exhaling when he feels it on his skin. _Thank you_ in the air between them, face going slack, eyes sliding shut, looking like Scott’s best friend again. That’s when Scott feels the closest to him. Feels the least animal between them. A moment that he cherishes before the smell of blood becomes thick enough and he can’t hold back his shift. The calm before the levee breaks.

Sometimes, Stiles looks surprised to see the wolf upon him. Never realizing the way he looks, bathed like the kill, baring his throat. Never realizing the way he feels or the way he sounds, whines tight in his throat, like the bitch Scott makes of him. Never holding back enough to be aware of how pitiful a picture, poor thing, le pouvre. Never really aware of himself anymore.

Aware of nothing but the blood.

Just like he makes Scott. So fucking _aware_.

“Fuck, yes, please,” he moans this time, legs tight and inflexible but wrapped as close as he can get them around Scott’s waist. He’s got old scratches _everywhere_ , Scott can feel them, even before he’s opening them up again, emptying them out. Flesh defiant, closing too soon, healing inhuman. Hurting the worst. “ _Burns_ , Scott, _please_ ,” Stiles continues, voice weathered to a whimper, cajoling the alpha, seductive as a dying animal.

Scott will fuck deeper into him, bite at his shoulders, take his erection in his fist, try to drown out the pleas, wash out the itch. But by the end of the night he’ll give in, and they’ll wake wondering where the deepest damage was done, and on whom. At least when they wake, Stiles will let Scott touch him gently.

* * *

18.  
It’s so hard to wait until everyone in the house falls asleep before climbing out of his bedroom window. Derek’s pretty sure Laura knows anyway, but she hasn’t said anything. Besides, he only gets one night a month. Well, one night per lunar cycle, which is ironic in its own way. He can only see Stiles – or touch Stiles, or taste Stiles – under the new moon, with nothing but the starlight and his own heightened senses to guide him through the trees.

It’s never the same place twice, but Derek never has any trouble finding him. As soon as he enters the hushed cool of the woods, he just _knows_ , drops down to all fours in a run to get there faster. It’s all he can do not to howl.

It’s not a scent or a sound that tells him when to stop, but something about the way the shadows fall, coalescing until they become solid, like curtains Stiles can hide behind. And even though he’s expecting it, Derek still gasps when the shadows peel back and Stiles seems to appear out of nowhere, skin glowing like the moonlight that strengthens Derek’s powers. “Where do you even come from?” Derek asks breathlessly, not for the first time.

Stiles just looks up at the stars and smiles. “I’m not even entirely sure where I am now.”

Derek should question it, he should… But they already have so little time together, and Derek probably couldn’t puzzle out the how and the why of it if he had a hundred lifetimes. Not when Stiles’ luminous skin is warm and soft to the touch, when his eyes are ageless but the rest of him looks no older than Derek. It’s almost a year that they’ve been meeting in the forest, but all told it’s only been 12 nights.

Whatever Stiles is, his body looks and feels and _smells_ just right, his lips moving so sweetly against Derek’s. Things get heated pretty quickly – Derek nearly tears his boxers getting them off, but Stiles is suddenly naked under Derek’s hands like he’s never been anything else. Stiles is so responsive to Derek’s fumbling touches, gasping when Derek pulls them roughly together and lands with his back against a tree.

When Stiles reaches between Derek’s legs, his fingers are already wet. It never feels this good when Derek does this to himself; Stiles easily finds an angle that Derek can’t quite get right with fingers or toys. And he doesn’t have to hold back on a moan when Stiles lifts him easily. Derek wonders whether he’ll ever have this again, ever be with someone who’s strong enough to hold him up and slide into him. It hurts a little – it always does, at first – but Stiles soothes him with a whisper like the night air blowing lazily through the trees.

Derek clings to Stiles, gets lost in those huge, dark eyes while he waits for his body to relax. He has no reason to feel as safe as he does out here, but Stiles’ impish grin always reassures him, makes him feel like there’s nothing else in the world but this.

It always starts out slower than he wants, and even though he knows it won’t do any good, he growls and tugs at Stiles’ hair. Stiles just laughs and kisses him, rocking hard and deep until Derek is gasping and clawing at Stiles’ shoulders.

The angle and the friction between their bodies is enough to make Derek come, but as amazing as that feels, the real climax is Stiles’ orgasm. Derek would swear Stiles’ skin glows even brighter as he gets close, and when he finally cries out and buries his face against Derek’s neck, the very air around them seems to shimmer.

No matter how they start, they always end up wrapped around each other on a soft cushion of leaves. They talk some – or rather, Derek talks and Stiles mostly listens. There are so many things he just can’t tell anyone else, and he came so close to destroying everything with Kate. If Stiles hadn’t warned him… Derek doesn’t even want to think about it.

So he doesn’t. He just lies quietly and strokes Stiles’ cheek with a single finger, tracing the strange, dark constellation of moles that stand out so starkly against the unearthly glow of Stiles’ skin. “Sometimes I have the hardest time believing you’re real,” Derek whispers.

Stiles grins. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

* * *

19.  
Allison likes kissing Scott's smiles; she likes leaning over tables and kissing his lips when they are taut in one of his sincere, bright, open smiles. She likes the feeling of her lips on his as he realizes that she's kissing him, as his smile transforms into something else, as his lips start moving with hers.

When they have sex for the first time Scott blushes against her pale shoulders and lets out these embarrassed tiny smiles and she nuzzles into the disarrayed nest of hair at the top of his hair, kisses him there and guides him inside her with a sure hand, talks him through getting inside her, breathy and gasping, goosebumps running through her as she puts her legs around his hips and her hands on his ass and tries to bring him _closer_ , flush against her until he's making choked sounds against his throat and peppering kisses there, sloppy, muttering _you're so beautiful_ , and _I love you so much_ , and _Allison, you're so perfect_.

Allison bites her lips, doesn't reply, just lets out a shaky moan when he moves his mouth over one of her nipples, starts sucking eagerly between broken words of praise.

She digs her nails on his shoulders, rakes them all over his back, presses her fingers dip enough to leave bruises for days, feels strangely determined to _mark him up_ as she kisses his shoulder and sucks the skin between her lips, bites there, almost _mean_ when Scott lets out this sound that's halfway between blissed out and pained.

She feels grounded like she hasn't felt in ages, she feels _here_ and present with the weight of Scott's body on top of her, blanketing her, with him snug inside her, whispering sweetness onto her ears, letting the words bathe her.

She feels lightheaded as he grabs her by her waist, smiles up at her with this innocence that never fails to make Allison's knees weak, make her heart start beating harder, faster, trying to break out of her; it never feels to make her blank out a little, make her brain slow down and her body start doing things on its own. 

She smiles back, wraps arms around him, lets herself be hard and unyielding, lets herself try to eat up Scott's _niceness_ up, so she can have it inside her all the time, so she can have it with her even after they've both come, after they've put their clothes back on, after they've gone to bed and woken up to another day and gone on with life.

Scott kisses her face, her cheeks, her eyes when he thrusts _up_ and she lets them flutter closed, lips parting to let out an _oh_ in a voice that's quivering so much that Allison can barely recognize it as her own.

Then he's flipping their positions, putting her on his lap and lying on his back, looking up at her all trusting, all vulnerable without caring, just giving everything up to Allison, and he looks at her with eyes that ask _is this okay_ , and she can only put her palms down on his abs and _move_.

She arranges her sweaty legs and _moves_ , moves until Scott's making pleading noises, shaking under her, and her hands keep scratching at him, putting little red lines on his skin, all dark possessiveness that she's never let herself feel inside her until he lets out a sobbing, wrecked _Allison_ and she's coming, shaking on top of him and grabbing at his shoulders as she leans down and sucks a messy bruise on his throat, all _intent_ and she feels Scott fall apart, make a broken noise as he comes too.

She smiles against his sweaty skin.

(Scott's skin is perfectly unmarked once they're done, and Allison's gut churns as she puts her bra back on, but she tries to push it down, lock that feeling deep inside and she leans over to kiss Scott, sweet and deep.)

* * *

20.  
Chris Argent learns that he’s part of a hunter family at the age of twelve, starts training at fifteen, and learns about the Hale family at age seventeen.

However, it isn’t until his first day of senior year that he meets Peter Hale, all charm and confidence, strutting around like he owns the place.

Chris hates him instantly.

***

Peter slides into the seat beside Chris during Chemistry.

“I’m sure I would’ve remembered a face like yours. You must be new,” he drawls.

Chris scowls. “This seat’s already taken.”

“Oh?” Peter says, grin widening like the Cheshire cat. “I don’t see anyone else here.”

“They’re running late.”

“Mmm, I’ll bet. Guess I’ll be on my way then.”

Peter grabs his books and moves to a spot somewhere behind Chris, but he still feels Peter’s gaze all throughout class.

***

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Chris tries not to groan. “It’s the school cafeteria.”

Peter sits down across from him. “You’re never here. Avoiding someone?”

“No.”

Peter smirks, starts eating his lunch like they’re friends.

***

“Your form’s all wrong.”

Chris turns around, basketball in hand, wiping the sweat from his brow. Peter. Of course.

“Oh? You’re the expert?”

Peter grins, steps onto the basketball court. “Obviously. I’m not team captain _just_ for my good looks.”

Chris glares, ignores the way his traitorous heart skips a beat, and sets about teaching him a lesson.

***

This is dangerous.

He’s from a hunter family, Peter’s a werewolf. They exist on opposing sides of the same war. Nothing’s even happened, but it’s all Chris can think about sometimes. Peter wants him too, that much is obvious.

Which is why Chris only feels mildly guilty as he wraps a hand around himself at night, jerking off to the idea of Peter Hale sucking his dick, fucking him until he screams. In the dark, he doesn’t have to live up to the expectations of his family. In the dark he can have the things he dare not think about in the light of day.

***

“You need to leave me alone.”

He’s got Peter cornered at his locker at the end of the day.

“Do I?”

Chris tries not to growl at the insouciant expression on Peter’s face. “Yes.”

“Funny, I could say the same about you.” Peter smiles, showing his teeth. “You wanna know what I think?”

“No.”

Peter ignores him, stepping closer. “I think. That you want the opposite. I think--” he reaches out, places a hand across Chris’ now racing heart. “--that you want exactly what I do. But you’re scared.” Peter allows his nails to elongate, trails them deliberately down Chris’ chest.

Chris’ whole body shudders, and he closes his eyes against the sudden wave of arousal.

“I’m only the big bad wolf if you want me to be,” Peter says, pulling away.

***

It’s a stupid move. Chris knows that well before he even does it, which probably speaks to how gone he is on Peter. He just wants to talk. It’s been a week since the locker incident, and Chris is slowly losing his mind over it.

Peter has a basketball game that night, so Chris goes, knowing full well that his presence won’t go unnoticed. Despite that, Peter doesn’t come out of the locker room after the game. Chris waits, watching as each player leaves, with no sign of him.

Finally, he just enters. In the distance he hears a shower running and follows the sound straight to Peter. Who happens to be standing under the showerhead, hand shamelessly wrapped around his dick, clearly waiting.

Chris knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it.

“I--I came to talk.”

Peter smirks, blatantly strokes his dick. “I can think of better uses for your mouth right now.”

Chris groans, knows he’s half-hard already. “Fuck.”

“Later, darling. Don’t think either of us would last that long right now.”

And then Peter is on him, pulling at his clothes and kissing him like he’s _desperate_ for it. Chris reaches for Peter, hands scrambling to touch every inch of him like he’s been dreaming of for months. Somehow his clothes end up on the floor and Chris finds himself pressed up against the shower wall, legs wrapped around Peter’s waist as Peter strokes them both. Chris shamelessly fucks into Peter’s hand, moaning into his mouth. It doesn’t take much before Chris comes with a groan, Peter tumbling over the edge almost immediately after.

There will be consequences for this later, Chris knows, but for now it’s enough.

* * *

21.  
Stiles prepares before he goes to Jungle, fucking himself open with his biggest dildo and plenty of lube. He doesn’t get off; that’s not the point of the pre-show after all. He just wants to make sure he’s ready for the grand finale. He can have an orgasm any day; tonight is about finding _release_.

He strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in the door, tossing it somewhere he might find it later. His skin is already carefully dotted with glitter and small rhinestones glued to his skin that reflect the light from the mirror ball shining over the dance floor. In the darkness of the club, the only light will shimmer from that source, reflecting off of anything shiny. Stiles intends to shine and hide at the same time; it’s perfect.

He slips into a small space on the dance floor, neatly slotted between two men already dancing. They let him in, hands gliding down his sides to his hips, holding him in place while they grind. Stiles can feel how fucking _wet_ he is inside of his jeans, sticky and sloppy, and he pushes back against the hard dick behind him. Teeth nip at his shoulder, and he groans.

He wants to make the night last, but he’s not sure he _can_.

He just wants to let it all go, free his mind.

It’s so hard to _let go_ sometimes.

He leans in, kissing the man in front of him, not caring who it is. Scruff burns his chin and he groans, tilting his head back, letting him nip at his throat. He aches, hard in his jeans, trapped and uncomfortable as hips push against him.

Not yet, not yet.

Stiles twists to one side, moving from one man to another, grinding, dancing, enjoying the sensation without giving himself up. Hands stroke over his body, fingertips skimming sensitive nipples, palms pressing hard against his erection. He rides the fine edge of almost-orgasm until his skin burns with the need to lose control.

There are pockets of pure darkness around the edges of the club, places where men stand, cocks out, waiting for a willing mouth or hand. Stiles moves with purpose, slipping into shadows and closing his eyes against what little sparkling light filters in. He doesn’t want to see, he doesn’t want to be seen—he just wants to feel.

Heat from a body draws him in and Stiles goes willingly, turning his back to grind his bottom against this stranger, feeling the hardness push against his jeans. “Fuck me,” Stiles whispers. He holds out a condom, relaxing as he hears the foil packet tear. 

He takes the time to shimmy his jeans down, exposing his bare ass, knowing that keeping his jeans around his thighs traps his legs, makes him a tighter fit. He wants to _feel_ this, pulled back against the cock that nudges at him, pushes inside. He bends forward, anonymous hands gripping his hips to keep him from falling before he’s turned to face the wall and lean against it, head turned and pillowed on his bent arm, eyes still closed.

Hips snap, pushing the thick cock into him over and over and it feels so damned good, blotting out everything else. Stiles fists his own cock, tugging at it hard. “Oh _fuck_ , that’s good,” he mutters. “Just keep doing that, fill me up you fucker. Fuck me until I can’t feel anything anymore. Your cock is so fucking big, I’m so fucking tight, just don’t stop, fuck me into the wall dude.”

And he _does_. The stranger _does_ , pushing harder and faster until Stiles rocks into the wall, knowing there’s going to be a bruise on his chin and another shaped like fingers on his shoulder where he’s held tight. Teeth nip at his shoulder, sucking a mark into being and Stiles comes at the feeling, spurting against the wall while teeth hold him in place.

“Fuck, _Stiles_.”

Stiles goes absolutely still, heart stuttering. It’s not exactly a _common_ name. Does this dude know him? Is he fantasizing about him?

The guy pulls out and by the time Stiles manages to turn, one hand out, eyes blinking open into the darkness… there is nothing for his questing hand to touch.

No one is there.

He tucks himself away, ass aching and cock still wet. It was good. Fucking awesome, really.

He got exactly what he came for.

It’s just that now he wishes he got _more_.

* * *

22.  
College was Laura's idea. The family had been well off enough that work wasn't too much of a pressing issue, but they couldn't laze around all day, so while Laura was working, Derek was in his photography course.

His first project required photos of a person, or people. He'd never really taken any proper shots of people, so this was new territory for him. People were full of planes and dips that he'd not really paid attention to before. He really wanted to explore it further, he could see it in his mind; black and white, an abdomen, plains of white and shadow. The long stretch of an arm, the bend of an elbow. 

Derek had placed an ad for someone to pose for him, nude, or nearly nude, offering to pay. He got a phone call a couple of days later. 

“Hello?”

“Hi – Derek?”

“Yes, who's this?” Derek asked, suspicious. 

“My names Stiles – I'm ringing about your ad?”

“Oh, right. Of course,” Derek said, relaxing marginally. “So, what do you need to know?”

“Nudes, seriously?” 

“Yeah, I want to do a study of light,” Derek said, slightly defensively. 

“And you're ok with me being a dude? This isn't a ruse to get girls?” 

Derek sighed.

“Or guys!” Stiles said. Derek considered hanging up.

“Ok ok, sorry, I just wasn't expecting the nudes thing to be serious.”

“Well, if you don't want to do it any more, that's fine.” 

“No, no, that's fine,” Stiles said, and Derek could hear the click of his throat as he swallowed. “I can still do it.”

***

Derek took one last look around their spare room, which was set up to be Derek's studio. It looked clean enough, and he had all the equipment set out.

His door knocked, and Derek pulled it open. 

“Derek?” 

“Stiles,” Derek said, stepping back to let Stiles in. Stiles was roughly the same height as him, wide shoulders. Derek noticed long fingers as they shook hands, already composing shots in his head. 

“The studio is through here. Do you want a drink?” 

“Nah, I'm good,” Stiles said, walking into the studio. He whistled softly. “Nice set up, very impressive.”

“Thanks,” Derek said, started to fiddle with his camera. 

“Straight down to business, huh? Sure,” Stiles said. “I'll strip then.” 

Stiles slid his clothes off efficiently, dropping them into a small pile on the floor.

“Do you want me fully nude or..?” Stiles asked, thumbing the waistband of his boxers. 

“You can keep them on,” Derek said. Stiles nodded and stood awkwardly. 

“Can you sit?” Derek asked, motioning to the sofa he'd placed next to the window, blinds stripping the light.

“This is the most comfortable sofa ever,” Stiles said, leaning his head back. Derek managed to snap a quick shot of Stiles' neck. Stiles jumped. “No fair! Some warning please.” 

“Posed shots aren't as good.” 

Stiles looked at him.

“I can get you as natural as possible,” Derek said. “But fine, warning.”

“Thanks.” 

Derek moved around Stiles, giving instructions. Stiles was quite good about doing as he was told, occasionally giving a soft 'oh' when he realised what Derek was after. Derek had photos of the long line of Stile's back, the curve of a bicep, the way his moles stood out starkly on his skin. Light on dark.

***

They shot for an hour, after which Derek stood up, stretching. 

“This is good, thanks.” 

“Nice working with you,” Stiles said. He hesitated. “You know, we could do nudes, if you wanted.”

Derek swallowed hard. “Sure.” 

Stiles stood up, shucking his boxers. His dick was hard, curving up against towards his stomach. 

Derek stepped around him, taking a snap of the shadow it cast on Stiles stomach. 

“Wrap your hand around it?” 

Stiles drew in a shuddering breath as he did so. Derek let out a breath, and took another photo. He could smell Stiles' arousal, and it wasn't long before his dick was straining against his jeans. 

Derek watched Stiles notice and stroke his dick in response.

“Keep going,” Derek said, hoarsely. Stiles whimpered and twisted his wrist. Derek put his camera down, and moved closer, dropping to his knees and taking the head of Stiles' dick into his mouth. Stiles swore and thrust towards Derek. 

“I'm gonna-” Stiles said. Derek moaned as he swallowed Stiles' come, hot and bitter on his tongue. Stiles collapsed boneless against the sofa. 

Derek took more photos, of Stiles' soft dick, the sweat beaded on his neck. 

“Just for me,” Derek murmured.

* * *

23.  
He finds her in the aftermath of the quickening. The street is a wreck: car alarms going off, smoke wafting around her, and light flickering on and off. Allison needs to go, but her legs can't carry her yet, and her hands are still locked tight about her sword. 

Someone's going to find her here, she knows that, but she can't make herself move. 

"Allison?" 

She's too tired to even think about trying to run. She needs to get out of here before Isaac sees her face, he hasn't yet, while she has a chance. She needs to run...she doesn't move. 

Allison doesn't move and she can hear Isabelle's warnings in her head, but she killed someone tonight. She faced down a man hundreds of years older than her and she _survived_. She gave up everything and she deserves a second chance. 

She lifts her head. Back-lit by sputtering streetlights, he's beautiful, and she just might love him. 

Isaac drops to his knees before her. Her sword clatters to the floor between them and she doesn't mean to kiss him, but she does and he's laughing, crying, into the kiss and murmuring her name between breaths.

"It's me," she's saying at the same time, "It's _me_." 

The sirens make them break apart and she's strong enough to grab her sword, Isaac taking hold of her other hand. "C'mon," he says, his grip desperate enough for them both.

Her head's still swimming with the quickening and the journey from the street to her rooms is a blur of traffic and Isaac. She was warned this might happen, the Quickening of an older, more powerful Immortal refusing to settle lightly, and she takes slow breaths, following her teacher's instructions. Isabelle is centuries old and not by accident. Allison's died once and she's in no hurry to do it again anytime soon. She's even less of a hurry to surrender control of her mind to a dead man. 

She turns on the light while Isaac locks the door. Her mind is her own but her body's restless, eager, and she was warned about this too. 

"How are you still alive?" Isaac is asking when she turns. "And that lightning, what was that?"

"It's a Quickening," she says, taking in the blood on her blade. She wipes it in the ruins of her dress. There's no saving it anyway. "Happens when you win."

"And when you lose?"

She looks over her shoulder. "You're the guy on the ground." Dropping her sword on the couch, she smiles. "I'm alive, I won, and I'll stay that way as long as I keep winning." She's not looking forward to being a teenager for the rest of her immortal life, but she'll take it over the alternative. "It's also why I haven't come home." She bites her lip. "I won't age. I'll be seventeen forever." 

He nods, moving closer, "But you're _alive_." 

She returns the nod, catching the glint of tears on his cheeks. "I'm alive."

In theory, she could blame the Quickening for throwing herself at him, but she knows it'd be a lie. She doesn't care either way. 

Isaac ruins what's left of her dress with his claws, she rips his t-shirt trying to get it over his head, and it feels so good to laugh with him. Her giggles trail off into a sigh of pleasure when he sucks a mark into her skin, lips working their way along the line of her neck.

They almost make it to the bed. Almost. She thinks they get points for that. Maybe. 

Allison fucks him on the floor. He tries to go harder, faster, but she grinds into him. Her name becomes a plea on his lips, but she kisses it away and keeps moving. "Stay," she breathes, when she comes, fingers curled tight around his. "Stay with me." 

His answer becomes a wordless cry as he follows her over. She lets him roll them, lets him kiss her as his hand works between her thighs, finding her clit and bringing off again. 

In the morning, he'll wake her with his head between her thighs. The morning after that, she'll wake him, grinding herself into his thigh and he'll fuck her until she comes twice. 

Eventually, she'll explain everything. Immortals. The Game. Why she can't go back. 

For now, she just wants him in her arms, in her bed, with the lights of Paris at war with the starlight outside her window.

For now, it's enough.

* * *

24.  
"No, don't!" Stiles' muffled cry is followed by a blind reach to grab Derek's hand before it succeeds in turning the bedside lamp on. 

He winds up kissing Derek's nose, flailing wildly while toppling off the large bed and onto the hard floor. Stiles lies face down for a minute, contemplating his graceless nature while Derek turns the light on. 

So much for that plan.

Stiles rolls over on his back, grunting in irritation when he somehow winds up with a shoe under him. As he tries to grab the offending item, Derek watches from his perch and frowns. 

"What the hell was that?" The werewolf asks.

"What was what?" Stiles asks, because he's good at ignoring things even when they're dancing naked under his nose. 

There's an issue he's been avoiding since he and Derek started having sex and there's no way he's going to face it now. Not even when Derek seems to have noticed it and wants to talk about it.

Maybe he should get his name changed to Denial. Denial Stilinski. It has a nice ring to it. 

Derek rolls his eyes, doing his best impression of an angry male model reclining on a bed. What product he's selling, Stiles doesn't know. He just knows Derek looks good when he’s all rumpled hair, low slung jeans, pettable torso and artfully reclined. He could sell anything with that handsome face, even cat litter. 

"You know what." Derek lowers himself on his elbows, holding both hands out for Stiles to take. Stiles wriggles closer before accepting, hefting himself up to his knees before stealing a kiss. 

If you can't distract them through words, there's kissing and other sexy approaches. 

Derek's quiet hum makes Stiles internally crow with triumph. He’s got this! But his delight dies a swift death because Derek pulls away almost immediately. 

"Don't try to distract me."

"I'm not!" Stiles replies.

His defensive tone prompts a snort from Derek. "So you're _not_ trying to distract me from asking you why you won't let me see you naked?" Stiles opens his mouth to point out how they've had completely naked sex many times now but Derek beats him to the punch. "In proper light."

Ugh. Groan. Moan. Agony. 

The thing he's been trying to avoid for a week is now chewing on his nose and demand his attention like a clingy brownie fairy. Damn Derek for taking the "We need to work on our communication skills if we're going to make it as a couple!" rule so seriously. 

And damn himself for being so transparent. 

"Can I plead the fifth?" He hedges, squirming under Derek's unamused look. 

There's a nervous joke waiting on the tip of his tongue. That he ought to turn the light off before Derek's blinded by the light reflecting off his pale skin. And it's hard to keep it bay when Derek's eyes lower to his body.

Stiles stares at Derek's ear and tries very hard not to feel self-conscious. 

He fails spectacularly. 

How can he not though? Just look at his boyfriend! Derek's got a torso you could use as a washboard, his arms should be a national treasure, and then there’s his eyes. Just...

Heaving a long sigh, Stiles mumbles, "Are you done?" 

He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, Stiles begins to lean towards the light with the intent of turning it off. But Derek holds him in place. "No. I'm not. I want to look at you."

"Why? Do you wanna be blinded?" Stiles snarks.

Derek's fingers tighten before relaxing. "I want to look at my boyfriend, that's all."

A peculiar feeling of giddy happiness and nervousness begins to bubble up. It makes Stiles blush and squirm. "There's nothing to look at." He mumbles.

"There's plenty to look at." Derek retorts immediately, using his strength to drag Stiles back up in bed. His mouth latches onto Stiles' skin as soon as it's within range, peppering kisses down the human's neck and chest until Stiles is sighing with delight.

Stiles' hands grab at Derek, clenching when the kisses go lower and lower until the werewolf is nuzzling his crotch. 

\--  
"Should I go on?" Derek asks quietly.

Earnest green eyes watch him. Wait for him to consider the question, what it entails and decide. And turn dark with desire when Stiles nods hesitantly and lets Derek undress him.

Stiles can't fight the blush which takes over when Derek looks at his naked body and murmurs, "Perfect."

[end]

* * *


	6. Group B (without warnings)

25\.   
Chris is halfway to Beacon colony when he's roused by the alarm. He'd struggled to stay awake but eventually the quiet hum of his spacecraft in the eerie silence of the universe had lulled him into a restless sleep.

The ship's fuel gauge flashes an ominous amber and Chris scrambles to run a diagnostic check from the control panel. The fuel level indicator is dropping steadily and more than half the ship's fuel is already gone.

"That's impossible," he mutters, pulling up the pre-launch checklist. Chris is a veteran pilot; he'd verified all of his calculations, twice, before setting out on his mission, making sure to account for the weight of the vaccine he's delivering to the virus-plagued outpost.

With the quadrant's fuel crisis at a critical level, he's left little room for error. Chris' ship is the lightest in the fleet and he's maximized efficiency by removing all non-essential equipment prior to launch.

The numbers don't add up. Unless…

Chris jumps to his feet and pulls his gun from his thigh holster, then races to the cargo hold.

+

"What the hell were you thinking?" He slams his hand against the wall. He can't get the severity of the situation through the kid's thick skull.

"This was the only ship heading to Beacon for weeks!"

"Of course it is. Beacon is in the middle of the fucking warzone!" Chris grabs Stiles by the collar and lodges the gun under his chin.

"Don’t you think I know that?" Stiles squirms furiously, but Chris' grip is too tight.

"Four hundred are dead because of this virus. The rest are counting on _me_ to save them." Chris grits his teeth. "Now, thanks to _you_ , I'll never get there."

He sees the moment the consequences of Stiles' foolish actions finally settle in. 

"My dad," Stiles chokes out. "Scott. I wanted to see them."

Chris rubs a hand over his scruff. "Don't give up yet."

+

"Well?" Stiles asks anxiously. "Did it work?"

They've stripped the ship of everything they can think of—flushed the food and waste systems, ripped ultralight panels from walls, shed every stitch of clothing—and piled it into the airlock before releasing it into space.

Chris checks the flight trajectory. "We're close, but it's not enough. We're still overweight."

"We can ditch the vaccine!" Stiles says frantically.

"Then what? We make it to Beacon and die alongside everyone else?"

Stiles' choked sobs break the heavy silence.

"This is my fault. God, my own fucking father!" Tears stream down his face. "I missed him so much, and now I've killed them all."

Chris pulls Stiles to him, tries to console him, holds him close. Stiles is so young, probably the same age Allison would have been if—.

"Shhh," he whispers into Stiles' hair. Stiles' eyes are wild when Chris leans back to wipe the tears from his cheeks. He slides their mouths together to calm Stiles' panicked breathing. 

Their kisses quickly become desperate and they fall to the floor. The cool metal is nothing compared to the searing heat of Stiles' naked body. 

Stiles ruts furiously into the dip of his hip and tears splash on Chris' neck and chest like warm summer rain. Chris barely gets a hand around them before Stiles' come hits his belly in hot spurts.

It's over too quickly.

It never should have happened at all.

+

He could make it. 

He could knock Stiles out with the butt of his gun, drag him into the airlock. Without Stiles' added weight, Chris could make it to Beacon.

_"Any stowaway discovered shall be jettisoned immediately."_

It's written in the very code Chris has pledged his life to protect.

 

+

Chris untangles himself from Stiles' limbs and walks to the auxiliary control panel.

"What are you doing?"

"Adjusting the auto-pilot settings to account for the weight reduction," Chris says. "Find CMO McCall when you get there. She'll know how to administer the vaccine."

"Wait, what?" Stiles asks, rubbing his eyes.

"You have your whole life ahead of you, Stiles." Chris steps into the airlock. "It's the only way."

Realization and horror dawn on Stiles' face. "No! Chris, no!" 

Stiles scrambles to his feet, runs to the door, screams and pounds his fists against it.

But it's too late. 

Chris is already gone.

The shock and guilt overwhelm Stiles and he sinks to the floor.

Stiles can still feel the phantom press of Chris' lips against his, Chris' hands on his body, as he hurtles through glittering blackness, alone.

* * *

26\.   
"Can't you just imagine having this--" Jen tries to wrap her fingers around Derek's fist and fails. "--in you? Fingers fucking into you as he stretches you open, as _we_ stretch you open."

Stiles makes a noise, he wants to say it's dignified and manly, but fuck it, it's a needy whimper and he knows it is.

"Oh yeah, you want it…" She drops her hand down to the fly of Stiles's jeans and strokes over the hard line of his cock.

As he keens and tries to push up into her hand he wonders how exactly he ended up here, leaning back against Derek fucking Hale, with his English teacher palming his cock.

"I'm not your teacher any more, Stiles. You've graduated." Shit he speaks out loud too much.

When Jen and Derek started dating in his junior year Stiles was, well, Stiles was something that should probably be labelled as jealous if he had been ready to admit it. He was pretty impressed Derek was at least trying to move on, have a normal life, whatever. It's not his fault that his hot as fuck teacher, and his hot as fuck… friend started fucking. That's what hot people did together.

What he didn't get was how that descending into two hot as fuck people fucking him.

" _Jen_ , I don't--" Derek starts and Stiles is being crushed between them as Jen draws Derek into a kiss. Derek's stubble is brushing against his shoulder, and Jen's breasts are pressing into his chest.

This is really happening.

Stiles takes a breath and tries to figure out how to _participate_ in this, he doesn't-- so he's not a total virgin. He's just like, not very… experienced. He's slept with a couple of people, done some other things, but he's never really done anything where he wasn't, shit ok, it's going to sound bad, but nothing one hundred percent sober. He always had the alcohol to hide some of his awkwardness behind.

It's Derek's voice, dirty hot in his ear, that starts telling him what to do. "Touch her, Stiles."

Stiles surprises a shiver as Derek's damp breath hits his ear, it's so fucking intimate, he's about to be intimate, with people, with derek, and his teacher. Fuck.

Derek's hands are big and warm over his, coming from behind to drag them up to Jen's ass. He splays his hands out grasps them.

"Good boy," Derek whispers. "Move them like this." He draws Stiles's hands, his fingers into Jen's crack.

Stiles can feel wetness between her ridiculously smooth ass cheeks. "She's slippery!"

Jen lets out a little breathy laugh and Derek lets go of Stiles's hand to run his fingers teasingly over her hole.

He doesn't realise he's making a noise until Jen hushes him. "Shh, honey, don't want to wake up the others."

The party's been over for hours now, everyone had been celebrating their graduation at Derek's but they've long ago fallen asleep, or-- well, they were all quiet now at least. Stiles had realised Derek and Jen were missing early in the night, and Lydia had made some dismissive comment about them probably fucking upstairs. But dammit, they had every night to fuck, and only one night to celebrate their graduation.

He hadn't expect them to invite him to join in.

"Stiles, focus." Jen's cupping his face now, her jaw a blotchy red from Derek. She's settled her cunt onto of his dick through the material and he likes the weight, the heat of it on top of him.

Derek's chest is sweaty and slick against his back, his cock is so hard. He can't measure up to these two, fuck, what is he even doing here?

It's Derek that shows him how to fuck her, fingers around his wrist as he gets his English teacher off. It's Jen he comes all over, watches Derek lick her clean. 

He falls asleep squashed between them. Wakes up to breakfast and painkillers, still unsure of how, or why, but he finds it doesn't care.

* * *

27.  
Stiles grinned at the bouncer, fangs elongating slightly as the card was lifted from the deck. On a normal night, when he just wanted a stiff drink and the relaxing company of fellow freaks, Stiles would have teased the bouncer with descriptions of creatures in people’s clothing that were technically accurate while being annoyingly absurd. But not tonight. Tonight, his favorite angel was finally off-duty and waiting for him.

“Duck in a hat,” he said as the visual of the card - admittance to Papa Midnight’s - clarified itself in his mind’s eye. The bouncer, familiar with Stiles’ usual antics, raised an eyebrow at him for his quick and accurate description but didn’t waste breath on question. He merely lifted the rope and let Stiles through.

At the witching hour, the club was packed with creatures of various species and proclivities. Here alone both the god-touched and devil-born could mingle without fear of retribution. A haven for those who rise and those who fall, but aren’t yet high or low enough to be noticed. 

The only place Stiles and Derek could be together without fear of swift retribution.

Stiles could feel his eyes glow red as his excitement grew, his black wings fluttering invisibly in the third dimension as his sought out his lover. It didn’t take long; Derek was in the back, only a few tables away from where Midnight was holding court. Stiles smirked as he caught the flash of blue eyes, and he launched himself across the room and into Derek’s lap without a care for the hissing red-eyes he shoved out of his way.

Derek chuckled deeply, catching Stiles in his massive arms without even a raised eyebrow. “Missed me?”

“Of course not,” Stiles huffed even as he buried his nose in Derek’s neck, unhappily taking in the smell of old blood there. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Derek asked dryly.

“Oh, I don’t know? Because you were against a dozen ashgar, all by yourself, in Mexico last week for that, that _spooonbender_.”

“Potential prophet,” Derek reminded him. “And I’m fine.”

Stiles hummed and licked a long line up Derek’s throat, the sulfur on his tongue bringing just the lightest sting of pain to Derek’s skin - just the way Derek liked it. Derek hissed and pulled back, blue eyes glowing fiercely in the dark of the club.

“No dancing tonight, I take it?” Derek asked roughly, and Stiles let his vision grow, expanding beyond the human plane, to see Derek’s giant white wings unfurling behind him as Stiles pressed the heel of his hand over Derek’s denim-covered cock. 

Stiles moved from sitting in Derek’s lap to straddling him, knees pressed to either side of Derek’s thighs. He curled over Derek and brought his wings around them, grinning when Derek did the same. Black feathers mixed with white and sheltered them in the silent cocoon of their own tiny, private world.

“No dancing tonight,” Stiles agreed as he unzipped Derek’s fly and dipped his hand inside. “No mingling, no politics, no jokes about guardian angels and demons of mischief. Just you and me.”

Derek groaned, let his head fall back, and thrust into Stiles’ grip before snapping his head up to capture Stiles’ mouth in a kiss. Stiles attacked Derek’s mouth viciously as he stroked harder and faster, wanting to mark Derek, to leave something behind that warned everyone that Derek was his, and they would have hell on their hands - literally - if they hurt his angel.

From somewhere beyond the safe haven of their wings, a door opened and someone hacked a painful, smoker’s cough. “There are rooms upstairs, you know.”

“Fuck off, exorcist, so I can get off,” Derek growled, and the unseen man laughed.

“Nice to see you, too, Derek. Stiles.”

“John,” Stiles sighed. He let his head thump onto Derek’s collarbone in frustration, moment ruined. 

“He’s not wrong,” Derek whispered in his ear as Constantine's retreating steps disappeared into the crowd. He pushed Stiles’ hand away and zipped up his jeans. He retracted his wings, and Stiles followed suit, groaning in frustration. “Shall we?” Derek asked, pushing Stiles off his lap and standing. He held out his hand for Stiles, eyes still glowing bright with lust and love.

“We shall,” Stiles smirked, reaching out to take Derek’s hand in return. “And yes, you asshole. I missed you, too.”

Derek laughed all the way upstairs.

* * *

28.  
The alpha curled around Scott in a parody of a cuddle. His dick brushed against Scott’s ass to deliver an unspoken threat with every exhale. Scott hated this. He never wanted the Alpha’s teeth – now hovering somewhere around his throat, ready to rip at the slightest provocation – either. 

He shifted to relieve some of the Alpha’s weight on his back and set off a wail of pain from underneath them.

The entire room smelled like blood. 

Specifically, Stiles’ blood. 

It was still hot and free of the stench of death, but the Alpha had been toying with them for hours. Stiles had bled enough to coat the front of Scott’s body where Scott pressed collarbone to cock against him. 

“Scott,” Stiles said. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it; the first time, it had been a cry for help, and after that a curse, until now it was nothing at all. Just another exhale from a wounded animal. A remote part of Scott wondered that Stiles could still speak, especially when he continued: “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t want to.” Scott felt the monster at his throat with every syllable. Anything he said could be the final straw that lead to his death, or worse, Stiles’. “This isn’t me. I know this isn’t me.”

The Alpha ignored his words. Instead, the monster dug his claw-tipped, human-shaped hands into Scott’s hips and pressed him forward again to rut against Stiles’ ass until he was hard. Scott lost count of how many times they’d done this a few hours ago; his hips healed but Stiles didn’t. 

“This isn’t me, Stiles,” he said, over and over, as the Alpha’s hands push him into Stiles. They’d started with no lube but by then the way was as wet and easy as it was warm.

“This is you,” the Alpha growled. “The faster you accept it, the less people you loved will get hurt.” 

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt!”

“Then stop it!” Stiles interrupted. “Scott - stop. I know this isn’t you. You don’t want to do this.”

“You do,” the Alpha said. “You want to do this because if it wasn’t Stiles, it would be Allison. Or your mother. And you wouldn’t care, because you want to hurt something.”

“I don’t want to hurt him!” The Alpha was wrong. Hurting Stiles was agony; it felt like extinguishing the last bit of light in him when he came inside Stiles. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Then why are you?” Stiles shouted with all the force Scott thought he’d lost. Amazingly, he could still struggle enough to try and crawl free of Scott’s arms. Scott held Stiles tight, knowing the Alpha would kill him if he managed to run. Don’t attract an Alpha predator’s attention, Scott thought. Don’t be prey.

“He’ll kill us both if I don’t.” 

Stiles twisted in his grip, finally managing to turn over and stare at Scott from inches away. He didn’t look at the Alpha, just at Scott with an expression of fear so intense that it made the wolf in Scott howl. 

“Who?” Stiles asked. “Scott, you’re the only one here.”

Scott looked back: the Alpha had disappeared like he’d never been. 

He looked forward: Stiles was gone from his bed and had taken all his blood with him.

Scott woke with his cheeks wet with tears and his pants soaked through with come. Three feet away, oblivious and smiling faintly in his sleep, lay an entirely uninjured Stiles. Scott stared at him with yellow eyes for a long time. He didn’t sleep again that night. Instead, he sat by the window, waiting and dreading the Alpha’s call.

* * *

29\.   
***

If you ask Stiles about that night he’ll tell you that he doesn’t remember anything but a white world and ice. The night his life changed. 

***

If you ask Derek about that night he’ll tell you that he doesn’t remember anything but darkness and then the burst of fire. 

***

Good and evil, they fight side by side every single day. The light and right side of the force as Stiles likens their little troop to against the dark death eaters that have come to life inside of Beacon Hills. It’s their own personal backgammon game: Black against White. Stiles rambles on and on while he’s bleeding out on the table and Derek wants him to shut up because the red is too stark against Stiles’ perfect ivory torso. Instead, he pushes Stiles bangs back from his forehead and kisses it. “Shut up,” he whispers. 

Derek never thought of it like good versus evil. It was always ‘us versus them’. It was always his kind against invading humans, hunters, and other hellhounds. He’s never wanted to kill anyone more than right now though. Instinct has him wanting to protect pack because deep down in his core Stiles is his in a way that he’ll never be Scott’s. And that makes Derek want to kill more than he wants to stand here holding Stiles’ hand. 

But he stays. 

***

Two weeks Stiles chomps at the bit, driving everyone manic and crazy (because Stiles’ is a little manic and crazy under it all and normally he loves waving that flag high enough for everyone to see but those within his blast radius while he heals are hit the hardest). Derek sends everyone away for the weekend when Stiles gets his stitches out. They’re no sooner back from Deaton’s than Derek lets the door slam behind him and pulls Stiles back hard, spinning him against the door. 

“You hurt anywhere?” It’s the only concession he’s going to give Stiles right now. 

Wide-eyed, Stiles shakes his head. 

“Good,” Derek replies. And then he dives in. 

He rips Stiles’ shirts off (because there’s a fucking layer or nine on the kid). Bypassing his mouth, Derek nuzzles in at Stiles’ neck, nipping at Stiles’ collarbone just hard enough to leave a mark but careful enough so he won’t break skin. 

Because this perfectly, gangly man-child in front of him is the light in the dark. 

He’s the beauty in the details. 

And Derek focuses on the details, mouthing at the moles all down Stiles’ chest. The trail of hair that leads down into Stiles’ jeans is soft yet wiry, but it feels good to run his lips along it. Derek doesn’t ignore the scars that litter Stiles’ body, they’re pink and healed over save one. Pausing, he presses his lips, close-mouthed, to the new wound. Here, he lays his heart and says his confession. Breathing out, Stiles hands are shaking but running through the hair on Derek’s head. He unbuttons Stiles’ jeans. Standing, Derek pulls on Stiles’ hips and pulls him back towards the bed. He wants all of Stiles. He wants the shaking shuddering breath right before Stiles comes. 

Everything they need is in the bedside drawer and Stiles has it out before Derek’s jeans hit the floor. Crawling up the bed, Derek kisses Stiles ankle, his knee, inside of his thigh and lastly his hipbone. Everything that follows is sensation until Stiles pulls on him. 

Warm and wet, Derek sinks in. Pausing now, he looks down at Stiles. 

“Look at me.”

Stiles’ eyes flutter open and Derek looks down into those brown almost black eyes. 

“Love you.”

Tears shine up his eyes and Derek leans down to nuzzle at him. 

“C’mere, oh my god, come here.” 

Stiles’ arms are up and around him and Derek brings his just under Stiles’ shoulder blades. A fast furious fuck is out the window because Derek moves slow like his limbs are weighed down with something he wouldn’t let himself feel before. 

“I love you, too, dumbass.”

Laughing, Derek should’ve known it would be like this. 

***

If you ask Derek about that night, he won’t say a word, he just smiles. 

***

If you ask Stiles about that night, he grins, and gives a twenty minute dissertation about the light and dark side of the force with an ending summation of: “It’s really all about love, man.”

* * *

30\.   
Derek hates the bright lights. The sterile smell and the white lab coats make his skin itch, yet it's the damn lights that almost make him walk back out.

But their rent's due tomorrow and Laura's just as broke as he is. This place pays four hundred in cash for werewolf blood samples, and since moving to New York, Derek's discovered people are willing to take a lot more from him for a lot less in return.

He doesn't ask questions; that's part of the deal. He tells himself he doesn't care what they do with his blood. 

"Back again, Derek?"

Turning, Derek sees Chris, who took his sample last time. He's older and gorgeous, and Derek hates that after everything with Kate, he still has a thing for people ten years his senior.

He ducks his head and shrugs, shoulders slumped like he's sixteen again. "Tight month."

Chris hums, looking at his clipboard. "Lucky for us then." He's got a hard smile. 

As Derek's signing the waiver, Chris clears his throat. "Listen, our lab's expanding its research," he begins his practiced speech. "If you're willing, the pay's more than double."

Derek's eyes narrow at the bullshit speak. "What do you want and how much are we talking?"

Grinning, Chris cuts right to the chase. "Semen. And 1k."

"Jesus." A thousand would set him and Laura up for a couple months. 

His interest must be written on his face because Chris holds out a new waiver and a sample jar. 

"You can use my office," Chris says, while Derek's skimming the form. "But I have to be present to ensure it's a clean sample."

He follows Chris to a small room off the main lab.

Derek squints, overwhelmed with how bright the room is. "This isn't going to work," he says, mortified as he palms his soft dick.

It's not PTSD, he tells himself. It's just that Kate loved to ride him with a hot spotlight right in his face. She'd laugh as he squinted and turned away from it, baring his throat as he came. 

Now, even the street light glowing into his dirty apartment window bugs him. The only way he gets off these days is in their window-less bathroom, lights off. He gives his cock a vicious squeeze; a thousand bucks is a damn good incentive, but nothing's happening.

"Can you-- can the lights be off?" Derek says, eyes on the wall. "You can turn them on when I'm going to… you know." He sounds twelve.

Chris doesn't mock him, not like Kate would've. He just hands over a packet of lube and flips the lights off.

Instantly, Derek's other senses become sharper, like brightness muted the world. He can hear Chris' heartbeat quicken, though whether from being alone in the dark with a werewolf, or because Derek's audibly lowering his zipper, he isn't sure.

The room smells of paper and dust like it's not used often, but now it's mostly Chris' aftershave and their combined arousal. Derek's having no trouble getting hard.

His biggest struggle is trying to keep quiet. He tries to pretend he's alone; he hasn't been with anyone since Kate. But he can hear Chris' pulse race, and fuck, if it doesn't make him harder. 

Derek tugs at his cock with a slicked hand. The slap of skin is loud and it makes Derek's cheeks burn. He wonders if Chris is listening. He can picture Chris in his mind, staring into the dark at the shadow Derek makes, maybe trying to catch a glimpse. 

At the sound of Chris' throat clearing, Derek's fucking lost.

"Ah, fuck," he says, trying to hold back, "Close."

The lights go on. He barely notices. 

Chris' face is so red and there's a thick outline of an erection in his jeans. He rushes forward, eyes on Derek's cock as he holds out the plastic cup so it's positioned to take Derek's load.

Derek gives a last couple pumps and tries to aim. The head of his dick grazes Chris' fingers in his hurry. Chris doesn't move away, instead he directs the tip, getting his fingers lube-messy. Derek' dick spasms with the first spurt; they both startle and laugh. Then Chris is keeping him steady -- a hand on his dick, another holding the cup as it fills.

A slow pump of Chris' hand and Derek shudders through his last dribble.

They stare at each other, panting, and Derek wonders if it'd be okay to ask Chris his last name.

* * *

31\.   
**Note: this is written based on a picture of future!Stiles that I can't find. I'm terribly sorry. I figure this takes place after 3A. 3B never happened.**

The door opens to two voices. He looks up with startled eyes. They never come back so soon after a 'session'.

"This is him?"

The voice is familiar, but Derek doesn't know why.

"Only Hale left."

"Good."

Derek watches as two people step into view and immediately realizes why the one sounds familiar.

Stiles stands with his hands in his pocket. Derek's not sure what he expects after so many years, but this isn't it.

Stiles still has messy hair. It's a little longer now, but it's styled nicely. He has hair on his face too. That doesn't stand out quite like the three long scars that start at the top of his left brow, stretch diagonally through his eye, and continue down his cheek. It creates a very different look than the soft-faced teenager he knew.

The rest of Stiles, from what he can see, is covered in tattoos and scars.

"Tell your boss I'll take him," Stiles says, offering only a glance toward the man.

Derek watches the man go, tries not to think the worst when Stiles moves toward the dial controlling how much electricity is pumped through him.

Stiles turns the dial down without turning it off completely. It's enough for Derek to rebuild some of his strength.

"I'm sure Argent will appreciate the gift."

Something about the way he says 'Argent' stands out in Derek's mind. It takes him another moment to feel his strength starting to return.

Stiles just smiles cheekily.

~

The breakout doesn't go as smoothly as Stiles had anticipated, but they got Derek out alive.

He tosses a bag back to Derek. "Clothes. We're two hours away from home."

Home sounds so foreign in Derek's head, but he pulls the shirt on first. He glances up at the rearview mirror, but Chris is focused on the road and Stiles is texting.

He shifts until he can get his shredded jeans off and pulls on the clean sweatpants. They fit well, and, to his surprise, they smell like Stiles.

~

Derek doesn't know at what point he drifted off, but he's woken up when the car comes to a stop. He groans as he sits up more fully.

"We're here," Stiles says and slips out of the car.

Stiles isn't exactly talkative as he points Derek toward the shower. Derek finds himself missing the endless babbling. It's preferred to this, but he guesses Stiles really has changed.

He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and sees all of the exhaustion, mental and physical. He's a bit smaller now. He's been running a long time. He's not sure he would have stopped had the hunters not caught him.

He spends more time enjoying the hot spray than he does washing up. He doesn't hear anyone come in, nor does he notice Stiles standing so close until Stiles' hand is on his arm. 

'You okay?' Registers after Derek jumps back.

"Fine."

Stiles stares at him, as if he's trying to decide for himself whether or not Derek's truly fine. Derek can't help but look Stiles over. He's bigger, stronger.

Derek is so caught in the changes that he doesn't even notice Stiles leaning closer until Stiles is kissing him. He's surprised initially, but he kisses back.

"You're a bastard," Stiles says when he breaks the kiss.

He knows. He left with the promise that he would be back. He left after Stiles told him he loved him.

"I know."

Stiles crushes their lips together. He touches everywhere, like he's trying to find the right place, and he doesn't seem to care that he's getting wet.

Derek lets Stiles push him up against the shower. His own hands find their way into Stiles' hair.

Stiles works the front of his jeans open, while kissing down Derek's neck. There's movement that Derek doesn't pay attention to until he feels the tip of Stiles' cock press against his entrance.

Stiles thrusts in with one smooth motion. He barely gives Derek a chance to adjust before he fucks into him hard and fast.

Derek hooks a leg around him, which Stiles curls his arm under. His other hand presses against the shower wall close to Derek's head. His breathing is fast against Derek's neck, movements increasingly erratic.

He bites down on Derek's neck to keep quiet as he comes inside of him. Slumps against him, exhausted, and tries to regain his composure. When he does, he looks at Derek for a moment before speaking, "You're still a bastard."

* * *

32\.   
Chris entered the dark room, already hard from the thought of what he was about to do. He had a pocket full of bills and a night that stretched endlessly in front of him. 

Verifying the peep-room was empty, he pushed his jeans to mid-thigh, his cock springing out since he'd foregone underwear. His bare ass hit the seat, the thought of all the others that had graced the chair adding an even _dirtier_ edge evening. 

He stared at the screen, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip as he worked himself up, teasing himself with what might be behind it. The screen could roll up on a tender, vanilla scene or… His cock twitched in his grip as he thought of chains, whips, black leather against pale skin. 

The hunter in him purred at the thought.

With a shaky sigh, he sat forward on the chair, his balls pressing against the surface as he fed his first bill to the machine. The screen popped up, gave him a glimpse, then dropped again. A coy little wink to set the scene: a flash of creamy skin against tanned, light hair tangled with dark. 

The screen slowly rose again until it was halfway. He could see legs, strong and masculine, the arch of a foot dangling off a padded table. The screen stuttered a little before beginning its ascent again and then Chris sat frozen, paralyzed in the chair while his dick leapt at the sight in front of him.

It was probably the most beautiful scene he'd ever witnessed here, and that would have been enough for him to get off on by itself, but… But behind the screen was Scott McCall.

And _Isaac_. 

The boy who'd left his house earlier with a flutter of eyelashes against his cheeks as he promised not to be home too late. That he was just going out with friends.

Chris' breath stuttered in his chest, and he knew he should get up right now. Leave. But he'd never been harder in his life. Guilt and lust twined through him, ratcheting his desire up another notch until he was gripping the arms of the chair with fingers gone white while he tried not to shoot off completely untouched.

Isaac was lying on the table, legs splayed as Scott sucked kisses from his neck to his navel. Suddenly, Scott's head jerked up and he turned toward the window, eyes going wide before flaring red for the briefest moment. A moment that anyone who didn't know about werewolves would discount as a trick of the light. But then his lips curved up in a wicked little grin and Chris knew. 

Scott had seen him through the glass. Or smelled him. Those fucking werewolf senses had pegged him for a dirty pervert who jerked it to peep shows.

And Chris had no defense because he was _still there_.

His eyes closed in shame when he saw Scott's lips forming words; he couldn't look, couldn't see the disgust on Isaac's face when he realized who was on the other side of the glass. 

The whine of the screen brought him back to himself and his eyes popped open again, just in time to lock gazes with Isaac, whose cheeks were red, his lips forming Chris' name. His long, lean body shuddered, and Chris watched as the flush spread down his chest, his already full cock twitching and leaking come onto his stomach.

Chris fumbled the next bill, fingers numb with shock, shame, and greedy lust. He got it in the machine in time to stop the screen from dropping all the way. As it raised again, Isaac moved. _Toward_ Chris, not away.

Isaac braced his hands on the window, letting Chris drink in the sight of his body, every inch of it naked to his gaze. The bruises on his hips that would line up perfectly with Scott's fingers, the ones on his neck that could only be from blunt, human teeth. Chris shuddered, longing to touch them before they faded.

Dragging his eyes further up, Chris felt gut-punched when he saw that Isaac's eyes were glowing yellow. He must have been standing there staring for far too long because the screen started lowering again. 

"Stay." Isaac mouthed, dipping his head to maintain eye-contact. "Please."

Chris had a pocket full of bills and two hours before Isaac was due home. He settled back in the seat and fed the machine again.

* * *

33.

"Is she finally asleep?" Stiles murmured quietly as Derek settled behind him on the couch.

Derek hummed, mouthing at Stiles' neck easily. "Yeah, fell right to sleep without too much of a fuss. What're we watching?"

"Nothing important," Stiles breathed out, tilting his head to give Derek more access. "It's been a while since we had this, huh?"

"Your father said you were worse at her age," Derek teased, dragging his nose along the curve of Stiles' jaw, relishing in the smell of _home_ and _pack_ and _family_. "I'm surprised we have free time at all, to be honest."

"Oh, you are the worst," Stiles complained, twisting around to glare at Derek, although the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth said otherwise. "Jesus, you are beautiful," he murmured, twisting around to press the words into Derek's mouth, as if that would somehow make Derek believe it.

"You are, you know," he pulled away, still close enough to see the flecks of gold in Derek's seafoam eyes. "Not just physically, but trust me, you're that too," he laughed, and Derek pushed forward to taste it, licking into Stiles' mouth and moaning when Stiles sucked on his tongue.

Not for the first time, Derek wondered how this was his life. It'd been years, but it was still hard to believe he _married_ _Stiles_ , and he had a beautiful daughter to boot.

"Everything okay?" Stiles whispered into Derek's skin, his eyes studying Derek carefully.

Derek nodded. "Just thinking about you and Laur, and how lucky I am."

Stiles' eyes went liquid.

"God, I really need to blow you like, right now," Stiles declared, beaming when that got a laugh out of Derek. "I mean, you... You're everything to me," he said earnestly, and Derek felt his heart flip in his chest. "I never thought I'd have this," he continued softly, as if he hadn't just turned Derek's world upside down. He got up off the couch and ducked in to kiss Derek briefly before dropping to his knees in between Derek's spread legs. "I love you a lot, you know? And sometimes it aches in my chest, and I just want to tell you all the time, remind you that I _do_ , I do love you," he blinked up at Derek, who was beginning to feel like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. There's a brief twist to Stiles' lips, a wry smile spreading across his features. "You're _so_ important to me," Stiles' fingers dug into Derek's knees. "You're so important," he repeated, shooting a small smile at the hole in Derek's jeans.

Derek was quiet for a moment, and when Stiles looked up, he was surprised to find Derek holding back tears.

Before he could say anything, however, Derek tilted Stiles' chin up to kiss him as sweetly as he knew how, a kiss that fizzles all the way to Stiles' toes.

"I wouldn't know where I would be without you," Derek said honestly, his voice hoarse. "I was so _lost_ , and you helped me get back. You made me feel whole again, and you gave me Laura, and Stiles, you gave me my life back, _Christ_ " he hisses through his teeth when Stiles' fingers brush over his erection in his haste to unzip Derek. "You make me feel... You make me feel like I'm _worth_ something."

Stiles kissed the skin above Derek's jeans. "That's because you are," he said simply, before he sucked the head of Derek's cock into his mouth, riding the way Derek's hips bucked upward when he moaned.

He blew Derek thoroughly, coaxing the orgasm out of his body slowly, the feeling building at the base of Derek's spine, until Derek was clawing at the cushions, his eyes squeezed firmly shut as he fought for control.

"Come for me, Derek," Stiles murmured, and Derek comes so hard it looks painful, his mouth open in a silent groan, because he hasn't been able to say no to Stiles in a very long time.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, he felt his heart thud in his chest when he saw Stiles staring at him, his expression fond and open. Reaching over to help Stiles' get off, Derek blinked when Stiles shook his head, grabbing his hand to entwine their fingers together instead.

"I'm fine," he told Derek softly. "You're perfect. I love you."

Derek kissed him again, and gives himself all up to Stiles.

* * *

34\.   
Derek’s key scraped against the lock of Stiles’ dorm room door, and he eased it open just enough to slip in. It was pretty early in the morning, and he was hoping to surprise Stiles with his impromptu visit. It had been weeks since they’d actually seen each other, and while they may be in almost constant touch by phone or text, it just wasn’t the same. Derek missed Stiles.

Stopping just inside the door, Derek leaned against the jamb, bending to take off his shoes, and smiled softly at the bed. Stiles lay there on his stomach, his face buried in a pillow, his arm twisted behind him in what looked like a really uncomfortable angle. Almost like he’d just rolled over and couldn’t be bothered to settle in better.

Derek huffed with amusement and shook his head. He padded quietly across the room, leaving a trail of clothes behind him, and put his knee on the bed. Carefully, he moved the papers and books that were still strewn there from Stiles’ latest research jag, stacking them neatly on the desk. 

He eased himself onto the bed and gently gathered Stiles into his arms, inhaling deeply. He let that much missed scent wash over him, allowing it to fill his senses. Stiles squirmed and muttered as Derek lightly traced between the moles on his back. 

“Derek?” Stiles muttered groggily, rolling to look over his shoulder. A tired, happy smile crawled across his face. Rolling him over completely, Derek cupped Stiles’ jaw and gently coaxed his mouth open, licking in and sighing contentedly at the taste. He had missed this in the long weeks since Stiles had been home. 

Eager hands stroked over pale, naked skin. Derek pulled Stiles closer, lining their bodies up until there was no space between them. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered against Stiles bright pink lips before licking back into Stiles’ mouth. 

He worked his way down Stiles’ neck, planting a kiss here, grazing a fang there. He stopped to suck a mark right over Stiles’ heart and grinned when Stiles arched into his lips and moaned wantonly. 

Hands cupped his face and tugged. “Get up here,” Stiles panted, pulling him back up and rolling them until he was straddling Derek. Their cocks rubbed together, and they both gasped. Derek arched into it, chasing the frission of pleasure that jolted up his spine.

Glancing down at Stiles’ crotch, Derek raised a brow. “A little overdressed for this, don’t you think?” 

Stiles grinned cheekily, jumped to his feet, and stripped off his boxers. Falling back to his knees, he draped himself over his boyfriend. “Better?” he asked with an arched brow.

In answer, Derek flipped them and ground down, drawing a wailing moan from Stiles. He rocked their hips together, their cocks dragging together. He lay gentle, open-mouthed kisses across Stiles’ throat, lapping at the sweat that collected there as they rutted against each other. 

Stiles’ hands wandered down Derek’s back to grab his ass, urging him on as he peppered Derek’s face with sloppy, uncoordinated kisses. Derek lost himself in the feel of Stiles beneath him, of the slick slide of their skin. It felt amazing to have him in his arms again, to feel the push and pull of lithe muscle over delicate flesh.

He could feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine and lifted up just enough to slip his hand between them and wrap it around both their cocks. Three, four strokes later and Stiles stiffened under him, his orgasm ripped out of him in a moaning cry. Derek let go and dropped back down, driving his cock through the mess on Stiles’ stomach, chasing his release. 

Stiles’ dry finger just breaching his hole shocked him into climax. He collapsed on Stiles for a moment, trading lazy kisses between them until Stiles pushed him off, whining about the weight. He reached down the side of the bed, fishing around for a pair of discarded boxers to half-heartedly wipe at the mess between them. Stiles just watched him with half-lidded eyes, yawning and stretching and snuggling back down into the sheets. 

Derek settled in next to him and wrapped him up in his arms, planting gentle kisses on whatever skin he could reach. Stiles cuddled against him, his breathing evening out as he blinked, obviously trying to stay awake. 

“‘M glad you came,” he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.

Derek smiled and kissed his temple. “So am I.”

* * *

35\.   
Even if you lived under a rock, everyone in Beacon Hills knew about the Hale twins. Devon; Popular. Outgoing. A perpetual ray of sunshine. And Derek; Quite. Brooding. Looked like a rain cloud followed him always.

At school while Devon was being a gravitational force with his friends orbiting around him, Derek would seek solitude in the library. It was a bright spot in Stiles almost weekly, Harris appointed, detection.

Most of the time Derek would ignore Stiles, choosing to pull out books, until he found the one with the most depressing description he could find. Not that Stiles minded. He got to oggle Derek’s sinful ass, clad in jeans that looked like he had them shrunk onto his body, as he hummed the score from _Cinderella._

Normally Derek would snag a book off the shelves and go find the darkest corner to read in. But on rare days Derek would gruffly ask if he had yet to shelf some unpronounceable Russian author. Stiles liked those days, Derek’s throaty voices made Stiles stomach do twists he only thought the X2 at Six Flags could do. 

Anybody who was anybody, and some who were nobodys, went to Lydia’s parties. Even the senior Hale twins were seen at a sophomore's party, if that sophomore was Lydia. Stiles and Scott _had_ to go!

It was kinda anti-climatic when they didn't even need to seek in. Scott had a mission. Locate, target, and talk to the new girl, Allison. Stiles’ mission - try not to look like a dweeb. 

Stiles nodded to acquaintances, stopped to chat with some guys he was paired up with chem a few times, and even shot Derek a long distance smile before the senior scowled and walked away.

About the second glass of _punch_ in, Stiles was far less nervous. Seemed once again Hollywood and internet hype made a mountain out of a molehill. He could do this. He could _hang._

“Hey, you’re Stiles aren't you?” Stiles looked over at the familiar deep voice, only to see the shining smile of Devon. “Wow, I don't think my brother could be more wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“Derek, always going on about that annoying kid humming off key in the library. How he’s annoyed he can’t get any reading done when you're working. Punch?”

Something in Stiles chest deflated. Derek was annoyed with him? He didn't expect undying friendship, but for Derek to bitch about him...

Taking the offered cup, Stiles downed the drink. “Take it easy Stiles, there’s still plenty.” 

Stiles nodded, crushing the cup in his hand. Devon was right his head felt a little off. 

“So Stiles, why _are_ you always in the library with so much?”

Stiles looked up at Devon, his face was fuzzy around the edges, “Um. Harris?”

“Stiles are you ok, you look green?”

“I’m I think I drank that a little fast,” Stiles said before he looked down at his wrist, feeling an alain pressure on it. 

Devon was holding his hand and shoulder, “Lets get you out of here.”

“Huh?” was the only sound Stiles made before the world became a kaleidoscope of colors a la Willie Wonka's psychedelic boat tunnel. We his vision steadied somewhat, Stiles was on his back on something marshmallow soft. And was just as hard to get out of. 

“Shh, if you don’t fight, this wont hurt. Much.” Derek - no Devon’s voice said from somewhere outside of his vision. 

Stiles felt cool air on his lower abdomen, “I don’t like this.”

“You’ll love it. All boys do.” 

Stiles felt a pulling at his hips and something giving way, letting the cool air travel lower. Stiles was shivering, but his didn’t know if it was from cold or and inbound fear.

“You even have moles on your hips.” Devon chuckled before Stiles felt something hot and wet run from his hip to his inside thigh. 

The wetness traveled over his coarse hair, before it was adbruplie gone and the sound of yelling took it’s places. Stiles tried to pull up and see who was yelling, to tell them this wasn’t right. 

The sound of flesh hitting flesh stopped Stiles from wiggling. Stiles sat half up, trying to see who was with him and Devon.

“Shit Stiles are you okay?”

“Devon?” Stiles asked pulling back from the face that he could barely make out.

“No,” Derek growled, before he softly add, “here let’s get you covered.”

“Derek, what happened?” Stiles felt safer with a blanket and Derek’s arms around him.

“Devon. Always trying to take things I like.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, we'll talk later.”

* * *

36\.   
Beacon Hills was an adder's nest of supernatural scumbags who went to the Jungle to party and get drunk.

Peter came to watch Stiles.

Beautiful Stiles, who was an angel on the stage. Sometimes, Peter let himself believe Stiles was dancing just for _him_.

But of course, he didn't. No one could see Peter sitting in the darkest corner of the club. Stiles wouldn't even know who Peter was. At best, the bouncer might point Peter out if Stiles wondered who was sending all the gifts.

Peter closed his eyes. He tapped a claw on the table, eager for the cowboy act to end. The raucous chorus of some country song playing to a rock-and-roll beat gave him a migraine, and he couldn't wait for Stiles' more sultry, sensuous music. He'd had a bad day. All he wanted was to see Stiles.

The cowboy was replaced by a fireman waving his hose to screechy pop rock. Peter frowned. This was Stiles' slot. Where was --

"Hey, sugar."

Stiles stood three feet away under a beam of white light, his oiled skin glittering where it wasn't covered by the little red trench coat that Peter had sent him over a month ago. His head tilted as he squinted to see through the shadows, and Peter... Peter leaned away. He didn't want his angel to see his scars.

"You're supposed to be dancing," Peter said roughly.

"You always leave when I'm done," Stiles countered. He canted a hip and lowered his chin, smiling a sweet smile. "I thought I'd offer you a private dance."

Peter's claws scraped the table. A chance to touch. To run fingertips on bare skin. To feel Stiles with nothing but the fabric of Peter's trousers in-between. 

"No," he growled.

"Please?" Stiles asked, walking closer. He sounded so pretty, begging. Peter closed his eyes again, biting back a groan. "You give me so much. You take care of my dad's hospital bills when I don't make enough. You make sure I get home safe --"

"Because I want to. Not because I expect... this," Peter said. He trailed off when Stiles bracketed his thighs with long legs, his hips twisting in a teasing little dance.

"And maybe I want you to take me home and keep me," Stiles said, crawling onto the wide chair. He was backlit by a pale blue light that gave him an angelic halo. "Keep me and take care of me. Just like I'll take care of you. I'd be so good for you."

Stiles' weight on Peter's lap was a balm, but somehow, _somehow_ , he kept his hands away. 

"You don't want me," Peter groaned, turning his face away. Stiles ground down against him and his warmth was... torture. "I'm a monster."

"We're all monsters," Stiles murmured, opening his coat coat. He was deliciously naked, his cock erect, his skin positively _luminous_. Peter could believe him an angel after all, come to rescue Peter from the dark pit that was his Hell.

Peter caved.

His hands ran up Stiles' bare thighs, savouring every inch. Stiles rutted against him with increasing pressure before drawing back with a moan. He unzipped Peter slowly, stroking Peter's cock as he pulled it out.

"Stiles --" 

"They won't see," Stiles murmured. The shadows were like pitch around them, and yet, the light remained on Stiles, bright and white and pure.

"If I keep you," Peter said hoarsely, "I'll never let you go."

"Do you promise?" Stiles asked. He shifted, pressing the tip of Peter's cock to a hole already slick with lube. To know that Stiles had prepared himself, that he'd come out on the main floor for _Peter_ when he never came out for anyone else...

"I would give you the world."

Stiles sank down with a breathy moan, pausing before rocking sinuously onto him. Peter scratched the curve of Stiles' pert ass, fingers inching closer to his hole, feeling where his cock slid in and out, and...

Peter tilted his head back, delirious with sensation. Stiles touched the scars on his face and kissed his lips and it was too much and not enough. Peter held onto Stiles, fucking up into him. Peter trembled when Stiles' body tensed, his come pulsing onto Peter's shirt.

Peter chased his own climax, his wolf mad with lust, his teeth grazing a throat he didn't dare mark.

"Stiles. My angel," he gasped.

"No," Stiles whispered, almost in warning. "Not an angel."

Peter kissed him anyway.

* * *

37\.   
When he opened his eyes he was at the bottom of that damned 8 feet of chlorine flushed water and giving up again. He shouldn't have opened his eyes, he thought. It was easier to drown with your eyes closed, because at least you wouldn't have to look in absolute powerlessness up at where the air was, just out of reach. Something felt off, though - something was supposed to happen, something important. He was thinking with surprising clarity beneath 8 feet of water, and his lungs hadn't even began to burn yet. Drowning should be more laborious than this - Derek knew from experience. 

One, two, three, four, five, six. Derek counted his fingers, and angrily snapped at his dream, "---Stop this, right now. I have things to do---" 

The chlorine water grew murky around him, as though a mocking, live entity, and writhed in tendrils of black. Beginning from his feet the smoggy tendrils pulled him downward by his ankles, their mood visibly stormy and rumbly, water-falling the way smoke did when flames met a dead end seeking oxygen. Derek knew that from experience too. 

"Stop this, wake up, I have---" The smoggy tendrils writhed into his mouth, stuffing it full and stretching it wide, his throat felt torn raw and opened, and other spikes of smurky water shot up past his caught ankles and impaled him in between the legs. Derek let out a muffled gurgle, and he wasn't even sure when his jeans had ripped to shreds, but the thrust and curl of the tendrils spearing him full was jostling him up and down like an anxious young buck ride. The intrusion was so violent, Derek blacked out.

When he came to, the murky waters were still at it, spreading Derek's thighs wide like a barren whore, fucking him deep. There was no actual pain, per say. More like thrusting feelings of disgust, brute invasion and trapping helplessness. His desperate biting and clawing were nothing, neither did reasoning, pleading and shameless begging. ---This was his life, though - Derek didn't know why he was surprised. Derek didn’t know how much time had passed. It was better to not think too much about it, he thought. It was best to think of your body as nothing that feels. _You are a rock. You are silent. You are unfeeling._ This Derek knew from experience as well. 

And then.

And then a hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed Derek by his scruff. He was pulled out of the water and he was wet and disgusting and nothing made sense. Derek took one look at Stiles, who was supposed to have been here much earlier than this, and threw up all over the boy's lap.

“What are you doing here?” Derek's voice cracked. “This is a dream. My dream. Get out.” He was just gangbanged by his life failures; he didn't need an audience.

"--What?" Stiles' face scrunched up, and looked down pointedly at his lapful of Derek's vomit, and then back up at Derek, "---No, no Derek, you're awake--here," he held up Derek's hand, and they count together. One, two, three, four, five. (That can't be right, Derek thought. _One, two, three, four, five._ ) He wished he could throw up again now. "Your proof of reality sucks." Derek told the human boy, who shrugged, eyeballing him without subtlety. Derek eyeballed himself also. All of his clothes were intact, apparently, and they were on the floor of his loft, no pool aside from a puddle of Derek's own blood.

Oh yeah. Kate shot him, again. Derek eyed the discarded lighter beside his hip and the burnt remains of wolfsbane powders.

"How did you get the wolfsbane?" Derek asked in mild confusion, as though surprised that--he wasn't sure what he was surprised by. He was surprised.

"Allison's dad." Stiles' voice was still a hint clipped whenever mentioning her name, but sat down with a sigh that was older than the room's air. "He went to scout the parameter. You were drowning internally. Are you, uh," Stiles made a gesture as though to encompass all the descriptives - sane? Okay now? _Not possessed, maybe?_

Derek nodded minutely, not wanting to give it a word. He probably should thank Stiles. Never really did. But for now he just wanted to sit here, where Stiles sat down. This felt safe.

* * *

38\.   
Chris winced as he pulled off his shirt. He'd been thrown into a wall earlier and his entire body ached.

"You okay?" 

Chris turned so that Derek could get a better look at the bruises covering his chest and arms. "Some of us take a while to heal."

Derek pointed at the bed. "Sit."

"I think you've forgotten which one of us is half dog," Chris muttered, but it was mostly for show because he did sit down where Derek pointed.

Derek grabbed Chris' hand and dark black veins immediately began syphoning the pain away. "You're always grumpy when you're hurt."

Chris had to force himself to stay upright and not slump forward against Derek as all of the pain rushed out of his body. He was so used to pain that most of the time he didn't even realize how badly his body hurt until Derek took it away. 

Chris let himself enjoy the relief for a moment before he pulled back. "That's enough. They're just bruises."

Derek frowned at him. They'd had this argument more than once. Derek was no stranger to pain, but as a born werewolf he wasn't used to the kind that lingers in a human body as it heals and he always wanted to take it away. Chris on the other hand didn't appreciate being coddled. If only he'd realized years ago what a softy Derek was they could have probably avoided a decade of grief and misery.

Derek ran his fingers over the hand-print shaped bruise on Chris arm. The wolf that had thrown him had been strong enough that each of his fingers had left clearly identifiable black stains against Chris' skin. 

"I wish I could make that go away."

"I'll heal."

Derek scowled at the bruise. "That's not the point." 

"You can cover it," Chris offered. 

"I'm not going to hurt you more just because I don't like seeing his mark on you," Derek sounded scandalized. "Covering that would take more than a hickey."

Chris rolled his eyes and pointed at the trunk he kept stocked full of medical supplies. "You can actually cover it. There's gauze in there."

"Oh." Derek's ears turned red with embarrassment and Chris' heart went out to him. Never in his life had anyone taken care of him the way Derek did. No one had ever wanted to. Being a hunter meant being tough and self-reliant. The irony wasn't lost on him that it took a werewolf to show him gentleness.

"Get the gauze and then you can mark me somewhere else." 

**

Chris arched his back as Derek bit down lightly on his inner thigh. Unlike the harsh pain from the fight, the sting from this bruise went straight to his dick.

Derek mouthed at the bite, soothing it with his tongue. Chris knew that he'd have a hickey there in the morning but he didn't mind as long as it wasn't visible—he drew the line at going to the grocery store with marks on his neck like a horny teenager. Derek would know it was there which should be enough to take away the emotional sting of someone else's hand marking Chris. 

Chris carded his fingers through Derek's hair. "While you're down there, do you mind taking care of another problem?"

Derek shifted slightly and ran his tongue up the length of Chris' dick. "That problem?"

Chris groaned. He tugged lightly at Derek's hair, trying to get him back on task. 

Derek chuckled, his warm breath ghosting over Chris' cock. Chris was going to reevaluate their no wolfsbane in the bedroom rule if Derek didn't stop teasing him soon. 

Werewolves must be psychic because as soon as "wolfsbane" crossed Chris' mind Derek rose up onto his knees and swallowed Chris' cock in one fluid movement. 

"Fuck!" Chris yelled as his dick rubbed the back of Derek's throat. There had to be something supernatural about Derek's gag reflex because no one had been able to take him like that before. 

Derek swallowed around Chris, his throat muscles massaging the head of Chris' cock. He reached one hand down to cup Chris' balls and that was all it took to make Chris shoot off like a damn teenager. 

Derek pulled away. "Better?" 

Chris clumsily hauled Derek up next to him. "You always take care of me." 

Derek rubbed his hand over the bandage on Chris' arm, sneaking his thumb under the gauze and taking a tendril of pain before Chris could stop him. "I try."

* * *

39\.   
Void stared in the mirror. He wasn’t looking well. He looked at his hands. They were translucent. He could see right through the skin and bone down to the boy lying on the bed.

He lifted a finger and poked at his cheek. Humanity was made of such fragile stuff. Flesh and blood damaged so easily. The skin gave a little, blood pooling into the paleness, and then vanishing again. 

He attempted a smile. It had been this failing that had not convinced the boy’s mortal friends that he was not their companion. He tilted his head to one side. The unnatural stretch of lip over enamel made him grimace. The need for such frivolity was beyond him.

The boy groaned, moved in his sleep. It was only while he slept that Void could manifest. The boy was too strong when awake. That would have to be remedied. 

He rubbed a hand across his belly, fingers dipping into the soft cotton pants slung low on his hips. This part of the human body he liked. The building sensation of anticipation, and then the explosion of seed and musk.

He knew that the boy looked. He looked at the girl with hair like the sun, dreamed of fucking into her until she screamed. He looked at the boy with the burnished curls and damaged heart, wanted to fuck him until he forgot his fears. He looked at the man with the hard jaw and terrified eyes, desperate to bend over and let him do whatever he wanted.

So much desire unfulfilled was exactly what Void fed on, what nourished him. The boy was stuffed so full with lust and terror that it was like an unending banquet.

The window slid open and the wolf leapt in. His eyes flashed red when he spotted Void. “Get the fuck out of here!” His claws flexed in preparation.

“I can’t,” Void smirked, waved towards the bed. “I’m part of him.”

The wolf stepped between Void and the boy. “We’re close to finding a way to destroy you.”

His posturing made Void laugh softly. “You cannot kill me without killing him.” They still hadn’t learned.

“We’re going to do it,” the wolf sounded sure.

Void felt the first stirrings of fear. An unnatural trickle of ice down his spine. It was unprecedented and unwelcome. “You won’t succeed.” He hated that he sounded so unsure.

“We will.” The boy’s voice was sleep-rough and certain. He was pale, the constant war within against Void having taken a toll.

“You can’t.” Void watched the wolf curl around the boy, his unnaturally hot skin forming a barrier between Void and his host.

“Don’t you know?” The boy sounded scornful, as though Void had missed the entire purpose of his existence.

“Know what?” Void asked, curious at this first exchange between them. It shouldn’t have been possible, this boy talking to him as though he was a separate being. Void was part of the boy. Would never be other.

“I have magic,” the boy whispered as though a secret. “I am a spark.”

Void felt the ice speeding through his veins. When he had possessed this boy, there had been nothing of magic. Just desire and desperation coursing though him in torrents.

“Not possible.” Void said it as though merely his will could make it so.

“But true nonetheless,” the boy said, suddenly years older in Void's eyes.

The icicles that were forming inside Void's veins suddenly coalesced, solidified in the most terrifying way.

“You're the truth,” he said, sure of it all.

“Yes,” the boy replied. “I'm truth to your lies, light to your night, freedom to your captivity.”

Void was felt despair for the first time. “You need me.” He knew this to be true.

The boy grabbed on to the wolf, held him close. “No.” He was certain. “I only need _him_.”

Void felt the winter calling him. He could return any time.

“No.” The boy smiled softly. “You are done now. I win.”

Void pressed a little, tested the bond be'd formed. It was guarded at his soul by a red-eyed wolf. “I'll return,” he promised.

“We'll be waiting,” the boy said, eyes intent on the wolf in his arms.

Void felt the chains fall away, once more released into darkness. 

He watched the boy and his wolf fade away, the light fading as he passed beyond.

The boy was his. The boy was him. The boy was the wolf's. Void tried to understand.

* * *

40.

Shock and horror had taken a deep hold of her: Lydia had no choice, she had to bring Peter Hale back, before she lost her sanity to the dark visions he poured into her life. 

As Peter rose from his grave, Lydia felt the life flow back into him. It was the most powerful thing she’d ever experienced. She barely registered anything beside the sensation flowing through every cell of her body. Seeing Peter move toward her was like a sequence out of a bad stop-motion film. 

“I knew, I could count on you.” He was close, running his hand over her hair and chin. 

Lydia was vaguely aware that he was completely naked, covered only by the dirt from his grave. He took hold of her and walked her into the cold, moonlit night. He was like a shadow - a shadow with a tight grasp on her wrist. With his dark presence gone from her mind, but closer than ever, she was barely coping. 

Peter put Lydia in her car and they drove away. Lydia realized he was taking her home only as her house came to sight. Lights out. It had been left empty after the police raid earlier. They slipped in through the side door. Lydia wasn’t sure what he was up to when they ended up in her bathroom. It wasn’t until he began removing her dress that she found her voice again. 

“You said you’d leave me alone,” Lydia protested with an angry sob. 

“Soon,” he whispered into her ear. 

The shower sprang to life behind her and Lydia heard a deep sigh coming from Peter. As she looked back she noticed he was holding one dirty arm under the water. A few heartbeats later, he dragged her into the shower. Stiff as a board, she tried to avoid as much contact as she could, but the pleasantly warm water sprinkling against her body made her aware how cold she had become. 

Her lips trembling, she turned to face him. “After this you will leave,” she said, determined. 

“Of course,” Peter replied with ease. 

Lydia sniffled, realizing how awful she had to look with her make-up all smeared. 

Peter cupped her face, “I wasn’t planning on leaving you out in the woods, cold and in shock. Besides, this is something we can both use.” 

Part of her wanted to draw back, and had she been herself, she would most likely have slammed her knee into his groin, but instead she stared at him. “You were dead, really dead.” 

“But not anymore.” 

Lydia needed to close her eyes, as his gaze made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Peter pulled her face, cold and teary, under the warm stream. She felt herself gasp as he let go of her. He was still close, and she found herself reaching out for something to hold onto. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll feel better soon,” he said, letting out a sigh. “I’m sorry to keep imposing on you, but …” he stopped as she shook her head. 

She was still cold and numb and wanted to believe him. Staring at her feet, she saw the dark swirls of dirty disappear into the drain. His hand ran down her neck and shoulders, making her look at him again. Lydia needed to ask. “But what?” 

His lips claimed hers and he drew her body closer. There was a hunger to the kiss. Even after her initial shock passed, she didn’t think about pushing him away; it was like a jolt of energy went through her body and swiped away the cold terror from her bones. Warmth rushed over her as she pressed herself closer, and opened her mouth. She wanted to feel more; their tongues touched. 

Her blood sparked, fueling a need to feel more. His skin felt rough under her touch, traces of dirt still clinging to him. Her soft body rubbed against his, her breasts ached inside her bra, her nipples stiffened. His hands ran firmly over her back then dug into her butt. Her nails traced deep lines on his shoulders, only to move on, needing to touch more - both of them - unable to stop. 

Almost. 

It was Peter who drew back: hands on her soaked bra, breathing heavily. Lydia was certain he felt the same desperate need, maybe even more than she did. This should’ve been where she told him to leave, and never bother again.

Instead, Lydia gave in to the moment.

* * *

41\.   
Stiles can’t remember yesterday. He can’t remember the last time he saw his father, or the last person he spoke to. He walks the town of Beacon Hills morning and night, but he does not know why. He drifts from house to house, pub to pub. Hears the town folk mutter in hushed whispers.

 _That poor boy_ , they say. _What a shame_ , they say. _He had his whole life ahead of him_ , they say. They call him The Weeping Boy, but his name is Stiles Stilinski. Why they call him that, he does not know…

❧

On the first night, Derek sees his prey from across the drawing room. He’s more beautiful than any boy he’d ever seen. Skinny and pale, with lips that begged to be abused by Derek’s mouth. 

The boy laughs and smiles and reminds Derek of everything he’s not. His innocence bleeding from his whole being. Derek aches for him. 

They do not speak, but the looks they exchange are all the conversation Derek needs to find himself standing at the boy’s door. He knocks and the door cracks open.

“Hello mister,” Stiles says, shy as a fawn - and how appropriate, Derek thinks.

“May I come in?” Derek requests. Stiles is trembling. He’s never had a man in his room before, but he cracks the door the rest of the way so he can enter. 

“I’m Derek,” he tells the boy and takes him in a sure embrace. 

“I’m Stiles,” he answers. _And how beautiful._

Derek takes charge, lays his delicate boy out on the bed. Undresses him slowly, praising him with every tremble. Kisses his neck and hips and the side of his knees. Touches every inch of Stiles’s body. Stiles is pliant like the chaste virgin he is, lets Derek have every bit of him. 

When Derek pushes his cock inside Stiles, they look into each other’s eyes. It’s intimate. Derek is caring and tender with him, everything Stiles ever wanted from his first lover. And Stiles comes with tears falling down his face, hearing sweet praises slipping from Derek’s mouth. 

When they part, it’s with promises of more to come, and Stiles couldn’t be happier.

❧

On the second night, Derek beckons Stiles to the woods. 

“I want to show you something so beautiful, only you rival it in its magnificence,” Derek entices.

And Stiles follows, because how couldn’t he when Derek’s words are so sweet.

Derek leads Stiles to a clearing with a little stream where wild flowers grow. To Stiles, it’s breathtaking, the woods lit by the full moon. Derek takes his lover into his arms, kisses his lips, his neck. Stiles couldn’t feel more content here in Derek’s strong embrace. 

“I want you forever, Stiles.” Derek whispers into his ear. “Give me your loss and sorrow. Give me all of your woes.”

“You can have it all,” Stiles says.

“You’re the one, Stiles.” 

Warmth fills Stiles’s body, at last, _this is love_ , he thinks. “I’m yours,” he says.

“You’re mine,” Derek murmurs. “Your beauty haunts my every thought.” 

“Let it haunt you no further, for I am yours completely,” Stiles answers with a beaming curve of his lips.

Derek takes Stiles’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply. One last exchange of passion.

Derek ends the kiss, rolling his shoulders, grips Stiles’s face and whispers grimly in his ear, “But all beauty must die, Stiles.”

With that Derek transforms his face, fangs extending, blue eyes glowing as Stiles looks him in the eyes. Fear dances across his face, and Derek sinks his teeth into Stiles’s neck and rips out his throat. He’s holding Stiles up, feels the life leaving his body. Hears Stiles’s weeping song echo through the silent wood. 

Derek lays Stiles out in the wild flowers, as the light leaves his eyes. Looks at his beautiful creature for one last time. Eternally beautiful and perfect like this. 

“Mine,” he says to the night.

❧

 _That poor boy_ , they say. _What a shame_ , they say. _He had his whole life ahead of him_ , they say. They call him The Weeping Boy, but his name was Stiles Stilinski. 

Why they call him that, he does not know…

* * *

42\.   
Stiles had two favorite holidays: Valentine’s Day and Halloween. Valentine’s Day because _hello, chocolate_. And Halloween because _hello, every single candy under the sun!_ And this year, this Halloween, he had planned out months ago. 

Sure, Little Red Riding Hunk was an option -- but he was sure Allison and Scott had that fairytale down. He turned around in the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The thing with costumes was that they had to be right, otherwise you end up looking a joke. Nobody wanted a joke on Halloween.

*****

The music practically vibrated in the air, lyrics thumping into each other while bodies on the floor writhed and slid against one another in the darkened room. Stiles felt hands sliding over his neck, another set of hands twisting along his wings, and another hand dip between his shoulder blades. He knew none of the bodies the hands belonged to but tonight that didn’t matter. He twisted and caught Scott’s eye and saw Allison lick a line along Scott’s jaw before his friend grinned and dropped his head back. 

Shaking his head, Stiles turned and lined his body against the first one he could reach. A naughty nurse who wrapped her stethoscope around his neck and slid a fish-netted thigh between his legs. He groaned as she whispered hotly into his ear about how bad she’d been. 

“God yes,” he whispered and began to lead her, stethoscope leash and all, through the mass of bodies. Hands and bodies heated and slid against them, he turned and pulled her mouth to his; bit her lower lip, licked his tongue into her mouth then grinned around the kiss when she slid both of her hands hands to pull at his jeans. Walking backwards they bumped and stumbled through the dancers until they hit a wall. 

A wall that slid two achingly familiar hands around Stiles waist. He ground himself back and gasped as those hands pulled the nurse’s hands free.

“Sorry,” Stiles gasped and turned. Stile froze as Derek Hale, brick wall impersonator, turned him and shook his head at the near. “Wait. What the hell are you?”

Derek raised an eyebrow, ignoring the question and looking at the woman behind them. Stiles heard her stutter then nothing as Derek pulled him impossibly closer, naked chest against Derek’s ever present black shirt. 

“That was rude,” Stiles whispered and thanked God, and the whole Hale werewolf family, that he could whisper in the din of music and know Derek heard.

“No,” Derek growled against his jaw, “Rude is pulling a slutty nurse and trying to get lucky knowing I’d be here.”

Stiles laughed and angled his head to the side, “I didn’t know you were here. And she promised me a trick.” He paused and pinched Derek’s side, “With her tongue. Think you can do better?”

Derek didn’t answer. He tightened his grip on Stile’s waist and pulled them through an open door. Stiles leaned closer and scratched his nails over Derek’s chest. “I think she’d planned on blowing me, Derek. Right here in the club.” He moaned and arched his back when he felt Derek’s nails sharpen briefly. 

“I think, God, she wanted a nasty treat. Dark and dirty. Getting her pretty little naughty nurse mouth fucked by her very own angel to make things right.”

He felt Derek grind their bodies together and grinned when he felt Derek’s hard length between them. Wicked, wicked wolf, he thought, before Derek pushed him against the empty hallway wall and slid to his knees. 

“I have a trick or two,” Derek whispered against his belly, before biting and licking the path of Stiles’ zipper and jeans. 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the moment Stiles gave up pretense at seduction and decent exposure. The moment he gripped his fingers in Derek’s hair and begged. He could feel his wings pushing against the wall, their white feathers almost wrapping around Derek as Derek circled the head of his cock with his tongue.

“In fact,” Derek whispered, “I might know a treat as well.”

Stiles groaned as he felt the slick, wet heat of Derek’s mouth. Then cursed as he felt the slick, slide of claw against his thighs. He whimpered when Derek hitched one over his shoulder then everything went white.

“Love you,” he whispered, sliding against the wall and tasting himself against Derek’s tongue.

* * *

43\.   
His path has always been a shadowy one but till now it has been righteous. Now, the darkness is encroaching slowly and inexorably, grown stronger with every loss. Kate. Victoria. Allison.

He's lost the light in his life.

Except...

It is wrong. It should feel wrong. But the only time Chris feels anything at all is with Isaac. He could wax poetic about shared sorrow, justify it with being brought together by grief but he knows there's no excuse for the fact that the only time he feels alive is when he's fucking the boy who loved—loves?—his dead daughter.

With his blond curls and blue eyes Isaac looks pure, almost angelic, like butter wouldn't melt between his plump lips. But that sinful mouth hides a silver tongue, vicious and cruel or dripping honey at will—tongue now flicking out to moisten dry lips, "Daddy please...", an almost inaudible whisper.

Chris knows he shouldn't be proud, shouldn't find Isaac's layers of camouflage so appealing when he knows his ability to mold himself, to say all the right things was borne out of pain and blood, but he can't help it. Can't help brushing his lips against Isaac's sweaty curls, murmuring "Good boy..." as his fingers dip lower and press against the boy's slick pucker.

He wants to peel back every layer of artifice, every defensive reaction till there's nothing left but the light he once saw in Isaac. The light he chases now when he licks into the boy's mouth, chasing the taste of his own precome from when those lips were wrapped around his cock just moments ago.

"Daddy please I need-" Isaac's breath hitches and there's tears in his eyes when Chris pulls back.

Chris thinks he may be dragging Isaac down into the darkness with him as he slides two fingers in, the werewolf running hot still just as arresting as it had been the first time he slid in on spit and precome, egged on by rage and guilt and Isaac's all-encompassing need.

Isaac wails when the hunter strokes his prostate, his back bowing in a graceful arch ruined by the way his clawed fingers and toes scramble against the sheets, shredding the thick Egyptian cotton.

They were Victoria's. He should care but the sight is enough to force a groan from his lips. Isaac is all pale smooth skin and long lines, the bites and beard burn already faded.

Isaac's cock is an angry red, slapping wetly against the hard planes of his stomach. Chris knows the boy is close, knows Isaac can come just from the relentless pressure of Chris's fingers against his prostate, but that's not what he wants. It's not what either of them wants.

The noise Isaac makes when Chris pulls his fingers out of his wet hole is bereft and goes straight to the hunter's cock. He's achingly hard, despite the fact that he fucked the boy once already against the dirty brick wall of a Marseille alley stinking of fish.

There's come clinging to his fingers and he lifts his hand to Isaac's tear streaked face. It's obscene how eager the wolf is for a taste of him, licking and sucking on the digits.

Chris braces himself on his knees and pushes the boy's legs apart. They splay easily, wanton and trembling as he guides his leaking cock towards the slick reddened hole.

He's in balls deep with one smooth thrust and they both groan, Isaac's voice muffled by the fingers still pressed against his lips.

Chris pulls his hand away and grasps Isaac by the hair instead, fucking into his boy in earnest as Isaac's long legs wrap around his waist.

The long expanse of Isaac's neck begs for marks. Chris knows they'll heal but Isaac's scarves let him pretend, lend credence to the thought that underneath lay livid bruises from his hands and teeth.

Isaac comes when Chris bites down, body arching against the hunter as his come splatters wetly between them.

Chris swears, the rippling around his dick almost enough to drag him over the edge. He pulls back, expression grim.

"Did I say you could come?" He tightens his grip of Isaac's hair.

The wolf smiles, insolent gleam in his unearthly eyes. "Sorry Daddy," he drawls.

Chris's answering smile is grim. "You asked for it."

* * *

44\.   
Lightning is the glide of the nogitsune’s fingers through his hair; lightning is the taste of its fingers in his mouth, pressing against his tongue. It’s the sound of its laugh in Stiles’s ear, the bite of its teeth upon his shoulder, the sting of an invisible knife against his throat.

Stiles isn’t scared, because the fear’s been bled out of him. He’s not angry, because his anger’s all used up. He’s not anything, really, except tired and impatient, reckless and burning up from the inside. Less thrilled about that last one, really, but the nogitsune’s been playing him like a fiddle for hours, it feels like, taunting him with that wicked smile Stiles shouldn’t know so well but does, familiar, slender fingers pushing all the right buttons, lighting him up brighter than a fourth of July fireworks show. 

“Don’t act like you aren’t enjoying yourself,” the nogitsune says lowly, voice amused, and it tightens its grip around Stiles’s hair so it can jerk his head back at a sharper angle, making his neck scream in protest. 

With its fingers his mouth, Stiles can only groan helplessly, inarticulately, and try to pull away. But even with only one hand keeping Stiles’s wrists trapped behind his back, he can’t get free, can’t stop the nogitsune from sliding its spit-slick touch down the bare, goosebumped flesh of his chest and stomach, trailing lower, lower, until its fingers and thumb are wrapped around the aching length of him.

“That’s a good boy,” it says, approvingly, but with such an undeniable note of mockery that Stiles forces out a huffed “Fuck you,” now that he can talk. Even as he bucks into the touch, lets the sharp upward cant of his hips ask for more, his mouth refuses to say what his body is saying, acknowledge what his mind already acknowledged a long time ago, that there’s no use pretending he isn’t already caught, hook, line, and sinker.

The slow up-down stroke of the nogitsune’s hand--Stiles’s hand, there’s no telling the difference--sends sparks shooting through his veins; a moment later, when the nogitsune pushes him down, shoves Stiles backward onto the bed and slithers down his body, his thighs actually shake with sick anticipation. 

He wants to turn himself inside out as the impossible wet heat of the nogitsune’s mouth wraps around the head of his cock, and Stiles arches so hard his body bows right up off the mattress. He claws at his bedsheets, pulls at them hard enough to tear them to ribbons, but maybe sheets don’t rip in dreams; maybe that only happens to people, to weak teenage boys who can’t say no to a pair of clever brown eyes and a soft, willing mouth, even if that mouth belongs to someone who looks just like him and destroys everything it could possibly touch, everything within reach. 

Stiles knows, from personal experience, that’s quite a lot. In daylight, it’s hard to imagine just how dark the night can get, but it reaches into all the little corners, finds every nook and cranny. There’s no secret part of him left; everything’s in the shadows now.

“C’mon, please,” he begs, thinking he means “stop,” but both he and the nogitsune know better. They’re both liars, in their own way, and Stiles can’t forget he was the one who opened the first door and beckoned the darkness in. When he frees one of his hands and finds the top of the nogitsune’s head of messy brown hair, his fingers only tighten to hold on, not push away. He fucks up into that willing mouth until he can’t remember wanting anything else, until he loses the last bright parts of him.

The sun went down a long time ago, is the thing--slipped right on past the horizon while Stiles wasn’t looking. He just opened his eyes and discovered night had come. It’d been impossible to find his own two hands in the darkness, at first, but given enough time, he can adjust to just about anything. Given enough time, he almost forgets he can’t see at all.

* * *

45\.   
Much is said about Stiles's lack of sight, but there's little that can be done. Doctors are useless. Deaton is stumped. Scott offers him the bite but he doesn't take it. He doesn't want to be another Deucalion, trapped in a world of black and red. School is a challenge like it never was before and he relies on others to help him through when he's used to being the one relied on. He's used to being the smart one but smarts don't matter when he can't see the danger right in front of him. He's been sidelined permanently and his utter uselessness makes him want to step out into traffic and end it now.

It's the touches that keep him going.

His dad's hand on his shoulder, waking him up, leading him to the bathroom until he learns the way on his own. A guiding touch at breakfast. Their fingers brush as his dad places a fork in his hand. They hug every day, always, before Stiles goes to school and when he gets home. He never comes home to an empty house now.

As soon as he gets out of his dad's cruiser, there's a hand in his. The size and shape of it changes daily. He's beginning to be able to differentiate Lydia's soft, tiny hands from Boyd's calloused and large hands. They hold his hand between classes, leading the way, guiding him safely from place to place. There's always someone there for him. Always.

In the dark of night, when his dad has left for his night shift, after much promises that he's only a phone call away, that he'll be home in an instant if Stiles needs anything, then come the touches that mean the most to him.

There's a sudden burst of cold air and the scrape of wood on wood as the window is opened. Heavy boots thud on the floor and are kicked off moments later. Hands find him, warm and gentle. Lips follow. Stiles leans into it, desperate for contact, for the warmth of another body pressed against his own. He grasps rough fabric, runs his hands over it before discarding it, shoving it off into the dark void.

There are no words. They don't need any. Lips talk just as well without sound and it's the feeling that Stiles craves, the wet slide of skin on skin. He opens his mouth for a tongue to plunge in, forceful and direct. They both want.

Stiles takes two steps to his bed. He pulls and is followed. A heavy weight settles over him and it's almost like being able to see again. He can feel the contours of the body above him, the way they fit together piece by piece. Muscled legs line up against his skinny and frail ones. Strong arms press down into the mattress on either side of his head. Insistent lips kiss him over and over again, their meetings and partings growing longer, deeper, more frantic as hips align.

Stiles revels is the slide of fingers inside of him, slick and sudden. They stretch him, opening him up for a much bigger intrusion and when that intrusion comes he sighs into the burn of it. Their bodies are connected and he feels whole for the first time that day. He feels complete. Then their hips start to move and his lack of sight doesn't matter. He doesn't need to see to feel like he's flying, like he's coming unwound and all the tension he's been holding inside all day is drawn out of him.

Afterwards they lay together and sleep until the birds start to sing and his dad's cruiser rumbles into the driveway. One last kiss before they leave out the window and Stiles says nothing, afraid he might say the wrong name.

* * *

46\.   
“This has to be punishment,” Stiles mumbled into the space between Derek's neck and shoulder. They were pressed together from head to toe with an inch left for breathing, in a storage closet after hours. A manticore paced back and forth on the other side of the door. Stiles could hear the heavy, acidic breath he'd felt when the thing had been about to bite his head off.

Derek hummed noncommittally.

Stiles rolled his eyes, never mind that his face was mashed against Derek in the pitch black. “Seriously, you think we're cursed? I don't know why this keeps happening to us.”

“Karma is a dick.”

Stiles snorted. “Whatever you did in a past life to deserve this, I hope it was worth it.”

Derek sighed. “You realize you're not actually the worst thing that ever happened to me, right?”

Stiles flushed with embarrassment, glad that they couldn't see each other. “Sorry, yeah. I guess magical harassment like this barely registers considering your history.” Stiles was the only one who dared to bring up Derek's past anymore. Everyone else liked to pretend the not-so-sour wolf had magically appeared after Cora had gone back to Argentina. (Heh.)

“It's not a curse, Stiles.” Derek had that exasperated, playful tone of voice that he reserved solely for Stiles.

The proximity and the idea of Derek's wicked little grin were slowly getting to Stiles and he tried to shift positions so his junk wasn't pressed right against the hollow of Derek's hip. It was obscene how good it felt, how well he fit there. Like he belonged.

“Stop squirming!”

“I can't help it and unless you want to be much, much better acquainted with Not-So-Little-Stiles you're going to have to give me some room to move.”

Derek froze.

Stiles sighed. “Would you look at that? Problem solved itself.” Derek's reaction had deflated him thoroughly. “I'm done with this entire situation. I'm this close to going out there and fighting the thing myself so I can hide in my room forever after.”

Stiles made a grab for the door handle that was somewhere near his kidneys, but Derek stopped him. With a hug.

“Don't.”

Stiles blinked, never more desperate to actually see Derek's face. “What? Derek, what is happening right now?”

Derek let out a low sound, something between a growl and a whine, and nuzzled Stiles' neck. The sensation was heightened in the darkness, filling Stiles with an awareness of all the places they touched. Stiles' knees were knocking against Derek's, their shoulders collided when one of them tried to move, and their hips were pressed together in the worst/best possible way.

“You're going to have to talk to me, buddy.” Stiles relaxed into the heat all along his front. Derek rubbed his face on Stiles' neck. “Shit, that feels amazing. Keep going. I- it's okay. I want you to touch me anywhere you like.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, but if he was going to complain he forgot about it in favor of pressing soft, barely there kisses to Stiles' skin.

Stiles squirmed, managing to get his arm wedged between them. He trailed his fingertips along the exposed skin between Derek's waistband and his shirt. “I want to touch you everywhere. Is that okay? What do you want?”

“Just... you.” Derek kissed him then, the dark turning it into a surprise assault, a wave of heat and pressure and slick. Stiles opened his mouth with a groan, letting Derek in like a drowning man let in the water in the end. Inevitable.

“God,” Stiles managed between kisses. “You're so amazing. We should have been doing this forever.” He freed Derek's cock one-handed, blind, mind hazy with horniness.

Derek's hands had somehow found their way to Stiles' ass, squeezing in a counterpoint rhythm to the movements of Derek's hips as he fucked into the circle made by Stiles' fingers. “I want to see you.”

“Me too,” Stiles gasped rutting against Derek's hip. “So much. We can do it with all the lights on next time, promise.”

Derek came. When Stiles felt the hot semen spill over his fingers, he couldn't hold back. He thrust harder against Derek and nearly whited out with pleasure.

“Uh,” Derek said, still a little dazed. “Did you just-”

Stiles had. His spark had gone haywire, turning the little closet into a cathedral of fairy lights. It looked like christmas had thrown up all over it.

When their eyes met, they both started laughing.

* * *

47\.   
Scott sneaks into Stiles' bed at night six times in two weeks before Stiles is forced to reluctantly admit that there may be a pattern here. Not that he minds Scott in his bed, because it's been kind of cold lately and Scott's always been warm to cuddle with. 

But after the last time Scott comes down with him for breakfast, Stiles catches his dad tossing his room for condoms and is forced to sit through an excruciatingly painful conversation about why it is important to practice safe sex even with boys.

"We weren't having sex, Dad," Stiles interrupts before he spontaneously combusts from embarrassment. "It's just --" he doesn't want to come out and say it, because even thinking too closely about the new hole in their lives makes him feel hollow and lost, so he just ends with, "It's been a rough week. A rough month. A rough everything. You know?"

His dad sighs. He drags a hand heavily over his face. "Yeah, kiddo," he says and leans in to hug Stiles tight. "I know. And of course Scott's always welcome in the house. Even if he _is_ despoiling my son."

So in a sense, what happens next is his dad's fault.

\--

Stiles wakes groggily to the feel of Scott's stubble scratching his shoulder. He flails halfheartedly behind him with his elbow. "Nnngggghhh," he complains. The sky is just beginning to lighten when he cracks open an eye. Too early to get up he decides, and closes his eye again.

Scott makes a grumbly noise. He readjusts himself so that his face isn't scratching Stiles. Both his arms are around Stiles, holding him. They tighten for a moment and Scott inhales deeply. He mumbles something into the back of Stiles' shoulder.

"What?"

"I miss her."

"Me too."

Scott's hand fists into Stiles' shirt. "I don't want you to die."

"I don't want me to die either," Stiles says, but his voice sounds weird as he says it and it doesn't sound as much like a joke when he says it out loud. He rolls over to look at Scott and he's surprised by how close Scott's face is, just a breath away.

Scott kisses him.

They've done this before. He and Scott were each other's first kisses and first times. And even though Stiles is pretty sure he'll never be _in love_ with Scott, Stiles still loves him, quietly and fiercely.

Scott kisses him and Stiles kisses back, open and relaxed and reluctant to lose the last of the sleepiness that makes everything feel halfway like a dream. He laughs a little. "I told my dad we weren't having sex," he says.

Scott pauses. His hand, which had been previously edging up Stiles' leg and towards his dick, stops. "Do you want to stop?"

"Nah," Stiles replies and brings his mouth to Scott's again. "He didn't believe me anyways."

They make out for a while until Stiles' mouth feels bruised and tender. He lets his eyes fall shut. Scott doesn't smell like the woods like he normally does. He smells like Stiles' shampoo. He's hard. They both are.

Scott licks him on the cheek. "You sleepy?"

Stiles arches his back to stretch it. "A little," he admits, "I like it. S'nice. Peaceful." He likes waking up during the quiet blue hour before the sun rises, where the sleepiness keeps him from feeling too twitchy and he doesn't have to _do_ anything, can just go back to sleep.

Scott sucks him off under the covers and Stiles returns the favor by spreading his legs and letting Scott rub himself off against his inner thigh, murmuring soft encouragement ("Yeah, Scott, c'mon, like that, yeah, Scotty").

They wipe themselves off with wet wipes from the secret stash Stiles has under his bed, then tangle together beneath the blankets again. Stiles gets to be big spoon this time.

Scott nudges him just as he's about to fall asleep again. "Hey, Stiles."

"Hmm?"

"The sun's coming up."

Stiles opens his eyes just in time to watch the first rays of golden light spill into his room.

* * *

48\.   
Lydia spread her legs and licked her lips as she stared up at the man above her. His dark eyes were filled with lust, and his dirty hands touched every part of her. It was a wonderful sight, to see someone so unaware of what was to come. 

She ran her fingers down his chest and expertly undid his belt before slowly unzipping his pants. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement and smiled. The man didn’t notice. He wouldn’t have been able. No one ever did. 

Quick as the flash, a rope wrapped around the man’s neck and he gasped eyes going wide as he tried to struggle. It was useless of course; Allison was too strong, too skilled. Lydia moved to sit up, and the target stared at her in shock and fear. She cupped his jaw, rubbing her thumb along his lips as he struggled to breathe. “This is what you get for hurting little girls.”

The target went limp as Allison tightened the rope. Lydia looked up at Allison, smiling and feeling herself becoming aroused as she watched Allison work. Allison leaned over the target’s shoulder and gave Lydia a kiss. “I’ll take care of the trash.” 

Allison left to dispose of their latest target, and when she came back, she found Lydia lying on the hotel bed, her legs spread and two fingers already pumping inside of her. Allison smiled and moved onto the bed. She leaned over her and gave her a kiss, running a hand down Lydia’s chest and cupping her breast, still covered in red lace. “You did good tonight, Lydia.”

Lydia smiled, using her free hand to pull Allison down for another kiss. “We both did, and we looked amazing doing it.”

Allison moved down Lydia’s front, pressing kisses along Lydia’s chest. She unhooked Lydia’s bra and tossed it aside, before sucking on one nipple as one hand moved down to play with Lydia’s clit. Lydia moaned and bucked into the touch. “Fuck, Allison!” 

Allison continued to move down, pressing kisses along Lydia’s stomach before replacing the fingers inside of Lydia with her tongue. Lydia gasped, pressing her legs against Allison’s head to keep her still. She knew it wouldn’t really stop Allison. The same hands that touched her so lovingly were the same ones Lydia watched Allison use to kill. 

Lydia had been a target, one that Allison couldn’t kill. Allison had tried so hard, had Lydia tied to a chair and an arrow pointed at her heart, but she couldn’t do it. Allison had fallen for her target and Lydia had fallen for her.

Now they hunted together, killings those who had wronged others. Lydia’s blood innocence lost when she strangled the man who turned Allison into the killer she was. 

Lydia ran her fingers through Allison’s hair and grabbing a handful. Allison slipped a finger in with her tongue, finding her g-spot and rubbing it. Lydia nearly shouted and bucked up against Allison’s mouth, her moans getting louder and louder as she spiraled closer to the edge. 

Allison’s other hand rubbed Lydia’s clit adding to the pleasure she was feeling. It was overwhelming and Lydia screamed out Allison’s name a few seconds later as her orgasm ripped through her. Allison didn’t stop pleasuring her even as Lydia’s body shook. Lydia gave a gentle push to Allison’s shoulder and the woman sat up, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. 

Lydia got into Allison’s lap and easily slipped two fingers in Allison, quickly bringing her off. As they collapsed to the bed, Lydia laughed. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of the sight you holding someone’s life in your hands,” Lydia said, she turned towards Allison and kissed her, tasting herself on the hunter’s lips. “I love you, Allison.”

“I love you too,” Allison said, stroking a hand through Lydia’s hair and smiling. “I think our next job, I’ll let you end their life."

* * *


	7. Group C (without warnings)

49\.   
While the light still shone, Allison kept her feathers to the breeze, her sharp eyes cast down to watch him as he navigated the rocky terrain. Beside him labored the traveler that had attached himself to them, though she was too far up to hear if they spoke. She didn't want to hear them; it only reminded her of everything she couldn't have as long as the curse still bound them.

It hadn't always been this way. She'd been a woman once, a flesh-and-blood, pale-skinned human, and she had loved him. She loved him still.

She veered away from them, tasking herself with watching the path ahead instead. If she thought for too long about how things used to be, she would get caught up in the memories. She would get caught up in the feel of his hands sliding over her skin, cupping her breasts, touching her face like she was made of glass he dare not break. She would get caught in the taste of his kisses, and the soft murmur of his voice beside her ear as he moved within her.

Folding her wings, she let herself free-fall, her belly swooping as the ground raced toward her. All thought fled from her mind for just a moment, until she opened her wings and broke the descent.  
No, she couldn't lose herself in imagining what used to be. Not now. Not until Peter's blood was hot on her hands and his curse upon them only a fading memory.

\-------

Scott knew that darkness was rolling in, but he couldn't bear to take his eyes from her feathered form to watch the dusk's arrival. He knew what it heralded; he could feel the wolf clawing at his insides, waiting for its chance to take over. When the light began to fade from the world, she would come down from the sky and take to the ground with them once more.

For just a moment, just the flicker of time between light and dark, they would both be human. For just a moment, he could touch his fingers to her soft cheek, whisper her name like a prayer. For the span of _I love you_ he could press his lips to hers, and then it would be over. Just a moment, and then he would be the animal, and she, the human.

Where once he had so treasured it, he had come to hate the night. It no longer held time alone with her, curled around her with nothing between them. It was no longer the feel of her palms down his back, or the catch of her breath, or the clutch of her fingers on his arms as she fell apart around him.

Now he slept beside her as a dark wolf, her fingers curled in his pelt and her tears wet on his fur. She missed him just as much as he missed her. She was right there, he was right beside her, and yet a thousand miles may as well separate them.

He holds his arm aloft as the last rays of sunlight begin to hide behind the horizon, and waits for her arrival. Above him, he sees her fold her wings to come back to him.

He will kill Peter, he thinks, and he will not feel regret as long as she is with him again.

* * *

50\.   
“You’re not supposed to wear _all_ the colors,” Derek said when Stiles showed up to the stoplight party with green pants, a yellow shirt with a red patch on the chest and a yellow headband that made him look like he was working out in an 80s music video. 

“This is a science,” was all Stiles said.

“You know the yellow stands for ‘it’s complicated’, right?”

“Figured I’d be more specific.” 

“Your pants are hideous.”

Grinning, Stiles looked down. “The green is for go. My pants area is all ready.” 

Derek watched him throw himself into the crowd of dancers in the living room of the huge house of whoever was hosting this stupidity. He looked even more ridiculous then, as he rolled his hips against the guy pressed to his back. The hideous green pants were impossible to ignore even in the sea of green, red and yellow. 

Stiles was throwing his head back and laughing, the stupid yellow headband nearly slipping off his head. 

Naturally, the whole thing ended with Derek trapping Stiles against the sink in the bathroom, cock buried deep. Without their ugly yellow shirts, Stiles’ skin was hot as it stuck to Derek’s. 

He leaned his forehead against Stiles’ naked shoulder, breathing hard as he dug his fingers into Stiles’ hips. He hadn’t prepared for any of this. The strange feeling in his stomach when he saw Stiles roll his hips up against someone else’s crotch – that weird mix of want and jealousy – had taken him by surprise. And he sure as hell wasn’t prepared for how overwhelming it was to fuck up into Stiles’ ass, punching little breathy moans out of him. 

Looking up, he saw their reflection, all of Stiles wonderfully on display. Stiles was watching too, eyes turned downward, fascinated by his own cock where it bounced with every thrust. And then his gaze moved upwards, meeting Derek’s in the mirror. His cheeks were blotchy red and his mouth swollen from kissing and taking the girth of Derek’s cock. 

Stiles groaned, his eyes closing, and he pushed himself back onto Derek with little circles of his hips. The sounds coming from his mouth, unintelligible as they were, were getting louder and less controlled, and they were fucking amazing. Shit, Derek was so fucking relieved he was the one stuffing Stiles’ ass full of his cock and not that other idiot. He nipped at Stiles’ neck, tasting the skin. 

The headband had started to come off. Derek was offended by its entire existence. 

“Why are you even wearing this thing?” He said, slipping two fingers under it. 

“Even if my pants say yes, my head might say no.” Stiles’ paused to release a shuddering breath. “Standards, Derek.” The last syllable of Derek's name went all shaky.

Derek rolled his eyes and pulled the band down until it slipped and settled against Stiles’ mouth. Urging Stiles’ lips open with two fingers, Derek pressed the headband between them and pulled slightly at the back, making it tighter. 

It was too elastic to be a gag, but it was enough of an imitation to make his dick pulse and he slammed his hips forward a bit too hard. Stiles had to catch himself with his hand, and he looked into the mirror, finding Derek’s eyes. 

Stiles bit down on the headband, groaning into it, the sound slightly muffled. 

“’ou a’hole,” Stiles said, even as he pressed his hand over the arm Derek had slung around his waist. 

In retaliation, Derek pulled at the back of the headband, exposing the long line of Stiles neck. Stiles whined and he spread his legs wider. 

“Fucking perfect,” Derek muttered into his neck. 

He pressed Stiles against him as he slammed into him until the pressure burst inside, and he stilled deep inside Stiles, coming as his legs shook. Stiles had his hand on his own cock and Derek watched him in the mirror, nerves still singing, as Stiles pushed up into his own hand. Stiles went still when he came, come hitting the mirror, and his head dropped forward.

\---

“Why the red patch?” Derek asked when Stiles bent to pick up his shirt. 

Stiles looked up, a bit taken aback, and then a smile spread on his lips. He moved closer and ran his hand over Derek’s chest. 

“Cause my heart’s taken,” he said and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Derek’s neck.

* * *

51.

**Then.**

The woman cut through the crowd of teenaged girls surrounding Derek like sunlight through a cloud. Heat unfurled in Derek’s stomach at the predatory sway of her hips, the pheromones crackling in the air around her. 

“Hi, handsome,” she said, elbowing a cheerleader aside so she could touch Derek’s sweaty bicep. Leaning close, she whispered in his ear, “Isn't putting a werewolf on a high school basketball team like bringing a flamethrower to a water gun fight?" 

He sputtered, throwing a terrified glance at the crowd around him.

She laughed. "Don't worry, sweetie. None of these pretty young things has any idea what I’m talking about!" Winking, she handed him a business card. _Kate Argent,_ it said. _Sales and Distribution_. "Call me when you get tired of playing these kids' games."

They went driving in Kate’s Mustang with the top rolled down, her hair gleaming in the sun. She squeezed Derek’s knee when she changed gears, and his heart tripped with excitement. That afternoon, she rode him in the backseat until Derek’s whole world exploded into blinding light.

**Now.**

Stiles shows up at the loft after midnight. Derek’s only bothered to turn his bedside lamp on, and Stiles is all pale skin and bright eyes in the darkness.

"Heard I got you arrested again,” Stiles says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry."

"That wasn't you.”

Stiles glances away, fingers tugging the seams of his jeans. Watching him fidget, Derek realizes how _still_ the Nogitsune had been in Stiles’s body.

Derek steps closer, crowds Stiles back against the wall, like he had when Stiles was just Scott’s annoying friend. “That wasn’t you,” Derek repeats, catching Stiles’s gaze and holding it. "Don’t blame yourself."

The laugh Stiles chokes out sounds more like a sob. His hands come up, like he’s going to push Derek away. Instead they clench into the worn cotton of his Henley. Derek recognizes too well the scents of misery and shame seeping from Stiles’s pores. He acts on instinct, crushing Stiles to his chest. Shuddering, Stiles buries his wet face in Derek’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into Derek’s skin. “So sorry. For all of it.”

"I know." Swallowing hard, Derek presses his mouth to the top of Stiles's head, runs soothing hands up and down his knobby spine. "Believe me," he whispers, "I know."

He doesn’t mean to start anything when he moves his lips from Stiles’s hair to his forehead. But Stiles leans into the touch, hands slipping under Derek's shirt. Derek kisses his cheek, and Stiles turns his head, catches Derek’s mouth in his. From there it’s frantic, hands shoving fabric aside and working buttons open.

"We shouldn't do this," Derek groans, even as he’s lining their cocks up in his hand. They’re both wet, slick with pre-come.

Stiles shakes his head, gripping Derek’s shoulders like he’s afraid he’ll get away. "Yes, we should! Fuck, I need this, Derek! Need you!”

If Stiles needs to lose himself in sex, Derek reasons, at least this is with someone who cares about him. Derek makes it good, using Stiles’s scent, his hungry, muffled groans, to guide his strokes. Stiles clings to Derek when he comes, pressing wet kisses to the point of his jaw, his neck,his shoulder. Still shuddering, he pulls away, sinking to his knees before Derek.

“You don’t have to--” 

“ _Let_ me!” Stiles says, guiding Derek’s cock into the wet heat of his mouth. As he suckles at the head, Stiles’s eyes flutter shut, face going calm, peaceful. He’s inexperienced, clumsy, but the sweet smell of contentment rising from his skin electrifies Derek. He’s grateful, suddenly, for his supernatural night vision. Stiles’s lips stretched around his cock are the best thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“Don’t stop,” he groans, hating how raw his voice sounds. Stiles makes a noise of agreement around him, the vibration going straight to Derek’s toes.

When Derek comes, Stiles shudders through it with him, though his dick lies spent against his jeans. His eyes are damp when he pulls away, lips swollen, glistening with come. He rests his forehead on Derek’s thigh.

For a long moment, neither speaks. The silent darkness feels comforting, thick like a blanket.

“Stay?” Derek offers at last.

Nodding, Stiles lets Derek help him to his feet.

> What hope we have lies there . . . Not in the light that blinds, but in the dark that nourishes . . . (Ursula K. LeGuin)

* * *

52\.   
A solar flare ripped through the world and heralded the end like a klaxon in the dark. A global EMP combined with a thousand nuclear weapons couldn’t have done them in as efficiently as a random solar storm. Now, sitting around a campfire in the unsurprisingly unaffected Beacon Hills Preserve, Lydia Martin takes a moment from the frantic daily ritual of survival and loss to breathe. 

She looks across the flames at Stiles, unnervingly subdued in Derek’s arms after the Sheriff and Scott.... She looks at Melissa McCall’s dirty, tearless face and Peter Hale’s impassive, unchanging expression and doesn’t think anything at all. Her throat is sore and her emotional well has run dry. She doesn’t spare a thought of how unfair their lives are or how different her life would be if the flare hadn’t hit earth. She’s too much of a mathematician to scoff at the odds and resent them. Armageddon, however unlikely, was always in the deck of cards.

A branch in the fire pops and Derek straightens and sniffs the air. Lydia knows he’s heard something in the forest, but he hasn’t tightened his hold around Stiles, so she tries to keep the simmering instinct to fight or flight at bay. She thinks she sees the hint of a smile on his face, but in the dark she can’t be sure. 

A few minutes later a large grey wolf walks into their clearing and she _knows that wolf_. Would recognize him anywhere. She scarcely believes it, wonders if she’s finally snapped, but a quick glance at Derek confirms her deductions. “Jackson.” The word slips out before she realizes she’s spoken and seconds later he’s naked and warm against her, his arms tight and unyielding around her. 

“I had to find you. If anyone could survive this mess of a thing, it would be you,” he says in her ear. His voice is rough and untethered in a way it’s never been before and she shivers against him. 

“Jackson.” She keeps repeating his name, touching him, because she still can’t believe he’s here. His scent and the stubble grazing her cheek is warm and familiar, and for the first time since The Day, she’s happy. Elated, even, because she hadn’t even bothered to dream that it could happen. It was too mathematically impossible. 

She doesn’t ask any of the million questions racing in her brain, doesn’t even care as his arms tighten around her and makes her feel safe. She wants the world to fade away and for him to hold her close like he used to. She has enough sense to tug him away from the fire to a copse near their supplies. Before he can say anything else she tugs him down to her and kisses him. 

Kisses him like their world isn’t on fire and like they’ve been in love for a thousand years instead of ten. His hands that bracket her hips are as strong and sure as they ever were and suddenly the empty part of her heart that she’s carefully ignored ignites as he slots back into her soul like he never left. 

He’s hard against her abdomen, his mouth firm and predatory. “Jacks--...” He steals her breath and she moans, biting his lip and granting silent permission. He lifts her against the truck of the closest tree and braces her with his hands on the back of her thighs. He fits even better between her legs than he did when they were younger and when he pushes her knickers to the side and slides inside her, she feels like she could set off a flare of her own. 

“Lyds,” he whispers. He tempers his thrusts and _cherishes_ her with his every touch, and in that moment her love for him is infinite and unending. The world’s gone to shit, but if she can have this, him, then she thinks she might be okay. 

“Jackson, I...” 

“I know.” And he takes her words with his lips and fingers her clit until she’s a writing mess in her arms and coming. He stills against her and pulls out, finishing himself with his fist.

“You came back.” 

He looks at her from under his lashes cradles her head in his hands. “Lydia, there’s no way I’m facing this mess without you by my side.” 

She bites back the knee-jerk sarcastic comment to make light of the moment, and instead smiles and kisses his nose. “I missed you.”

* * *

53.

#### Lucid

"What do you hear?" Stiles presses his palms to Derek's cheeks and stares into his eyes. "Sound, smell, anything. We're so close, but we need your help."

Sunlight spills bright over the bed where they lie tangled in white sheets. Derek laughs and turns his head to press a kiss to Stiles' palm. "I hear your heartbeat. I smell..." He inhales through his nose, filling himself with the scent of sex. "I'm on your skin, everywhere."

Derek pushes Stiles down, tugs the sheet from between them as he nudges Stiles' legs apart. "It's strongest here." He presses his face into Stiles' perfect ass, licks at his hole. It's hot, leaking Derek's come. "You taste so good."

Stiles sighs, even as he arches back. "Not here," he whispers. "Damn it, Derek. Not here."

~

He's in a place of perfect darkness. Damp and warm, moss grows on the boards beneath his fingers. He scratches at it, a line for every time she comes. He counts them when she's gone, fingertips sliding across the floor like a blind man.

Open wounds and hunger make him weak. He gets lost at eighty-something and gives up, lets himself sink into unconsciousness.

~

"You're not in California," Stiles says. "But she left a trail. We think she went South."

The loft windows paint squares of light on everything. Derek peels away Stiles' shirt to expose pale flesh turned gold from the sun. "You should never wear clothes."

"Focus, Derek. We're trying to find you." Stiles sighs. "You're happy here."

"Because _you're_ here." Derek leans in to press his lips to Stiles' mouth. "I love you."

"You love me?" Stiles pulls back, looks into Derek's eyes. He's smiling, but there's a hint of sadness there.

Derek nods. "Never leave, Stiles. I hate it when you go."

"Hold on," Stiles says. "Don't give up. We're coming."

~

The pain is terrible, but his voice died long ago and now he can't even scream. He knows it'll be over soon, he can't last much longer.

Soon he'll beg for it. Right now all he wants is a chance to say goodbye.

~

" _Stiles_." Derek's breath hitches, voice breaking as he twists his hips to drive himself deeper into Stiles' body. His cheeks are wet, and a tear falls onto Stiles' chest and shines in the light from the window.

Stiles' eyes roll back in his head. His skin is flushed, and he gasps for breath as his cock leaks on his belly. His legs shake as they bracket Derek's hips and his palm flies up to press against Derek's chest. He starts to come, his body squeezing Derek's cock in rolling spasms.

Derek drops his eyes, counts fingers, and wishes this were real.

"Come on," Stiles says. "Come inside me."

If Derek had his wish, he'd stay with Stiles forever, but he's had more here than he ever had the right to ask for. "Thank you," he says, as everything he is pours into the body of the boy beneath him.

They lie in the sunlight after, tangled in the sheets. "We found you," Stiles whispers as his fingers play in Derek's hair. "It's time for me to go."

Derek chokes on tears and wonders why his mind still feeds him exactly what he wants to hear. "Goodbye," he says, and leans in for one last kiss.

~

Derek stares into the darkness. Tears wet his cheeks here as well, but he's long past caring.

The grinding crunch of the door heralds his death. He won't sleep again. He won't see Stiles again, and that thought cues a fresh flood of grief.

"Finish it," he rasps.

He waits for her taunts. They don't come. He waits for the pain. He expects his flesh to tear, instead, gentle fingers card through his hair.

"I'm here," Stiles says. "I've got you."

Someone breaks the chains that held him for so long. They bring a light that hurts his eyes. Stiles kisses him, kisses his chapped lips and sunken cheeks. "This isn't real," Derek says.

"It's real." Stiles taps his fingers against Derek's palm, one at a time.

"Then why are you kissing me?"

Stiles chuckles softly. It's the most beautiful sound Derek's ever heard. "Those days in the loft, with the sun shining in the windows? I was there. I've been with you the whole time."

* * *

54\.   
The light is practically blinding. It’s the only thing Scott can see. The brightness, the way it sparkles reminds him of the Fourth of July. 

Scott falls to his knees as a pungent strong odor hits his nostrils. The light starts to fade and he can see a terrified Stiles, Allison, and Lydia looking back at him. His hand starts to hurt as he feels something hot and heavy in his hands.

A feeling of terrible dread and confusion and misery wash over him. The light around him is blinding him again. It stings worse than the gasoline. He wants the light to stop. He wants everything to stop. He wants the darkness to consume him.

Suddenly, there’s a massive explosion. He cowers, burrowing his head in his lap and covering his ears. After a few moments, he looks up and his stomach drops.

Stiles is laying motionless on the ground. Scott crawls over to his best friend - his brother. Stiles’ eyes are open, but the light is gone from them. 

Scott’s eyes fly open as he cries out. It takes him a few moments before he realizes that someone is sitting next to him.

“Scott!”

Scott blinks up at Isaac. “Isaac?” He says shakily. He still feels like he can’t breathe. He clutches at his chest and gulps for air. It feels like an asthma attack coming on - the tightness in his chest and fighting for every breath. But he knows that’s over now. 

As if reading his mind, Isaac repeats the phrase. “It’s over now. The nightmare’s over.”

Scott shakes his head as he slowly sits up. “It’s not. It’s not over. I can’t stop thinking about that night...at the hotel. I keep seeing it. I almost…”

“But you didn’t.” Isaac says strongly. “You never would have.”

Slowly, Scott puts his hands down. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well, I do. Something was else was controlling you.”

Scott looked up at Isaac. “If Stiles had died that night, I wouldn’t have needed anyone to tell me to kill myself.”

Isaac’s breath hitches, but he recovers quickly. “But he’s okay.”

“For how long?” Scott is tired of living in denial. “Boyd is dead, Isaac. I couldn’t stop that. Everything is on me. Deaton tells me that I’m destined to be this great hero and I can’t do it!”

Isaac’s eyes widen and he looks frightened as the tears fall from Scott’s eyes.

“This is too much! I feel I can’t breathe, Isaac. I can’t take the idea of making the wrong move and hurting somebody else that I love. I can’t take it!” 

Isaac hugs him fiercely. Scott buries his face in Isaac’s chest.

“I can’t stop thinking about that night. I can’t stop seeing Stiles dead. I can’t stop, I can’t stop…”

Isaac pulls back and cradles Scott’s head in his hands. “Please, Scott tell me what to do. I want to help you. Please…”

Scott takes a few deep breaths as he looks into Isaac’s earnest eyes. The next thing he knows, he leans over and kisses Isaac.

It’s just a quick peck, but it feels right. He goes in for another kiss, and Isaac moves back.

“Wait…” Isaac says weakly. “Think about this.”

“No. I’m not thinking anymore. Not tonight.” He goes in for another kiss.

Isaac climbs fully onto the bed. Scott cards his fingers through Isaac’s hair and gently licks at Isaac’s mouth. All thoughts but want, need, take fly out of his head.

Isaac moans and presses Scott back against the bed. As Isaac slowly crawls down his body, placing gentle nips along every bit of exposed skin he can find, Scott writhes on the bed. When Isaac gets to Scott’s length, he slowly takes him in his mouth.

Scott gasps. 

Isaac takes him all the way down to the root. He slides almost all the way off, before diving back down, his nose resting in Scott’s pubes. He increases the speed. 

Soon, Scott comes so hard he can hear the bed rattle. 

When his shuddering stops, he can feel Isaac begin to rut against his leg and it doesn’t take long before Isaac comes with Scott’s name on his lips.

He rests his full length against Scott’s back and puts his arms around him. Scott sighs and puts his hand on top of Isaac’s arms and feels more at peace than he has in a long time.

“Scott?”

Scott turns his head to look at Isaac. “Yeah?”

“I promise that you’re not alone.” Isaac kisses him softly. “Got it?”

Scott nods. He is starting to believe that there is light at the end of the tunnel and maybe it doesn’t have to be so painful.

* * *

55\.   
Derek can't explain himself.

He can't explain the draw - can't justify his need to be there, now, with her. He knows all too well what she is. He's seen her face, has heard the stories and seen firsthand the way her jealousy and resentment has twisted and turned into something deadly. He knows her signs, her tells. Her evils. He knows that, right now, he should be anywhere but there.

But the way her back arches, the way her thighs press more firmly against his head as she groans... it's intoxicating.

She's intoxicating, and he can't stop himself from drinking her in more.

"Derek," she gasps, her hips rocking upwards, almost grinding into his face. "Oh my god, Derek..."

He groans in return and pushes a third finger inside of her. "Jen..."

He's murmuring against her cunt as he eats her out, fingers fucking her steadily while his tongue runs over her folds. He's painfully hard in his jeans but he's trying to block it all out - all he wants, in this moment, is her.

Right then, Jennifer is all that matters.

He knows what his friends would say. He knows that she's dangerous, that he's setting back all their hard work every time he finds her at her apartment. But somehow, he can't stop.

He doesn't want to stop.

"More, fuck," she gasps, fingers twining into his hair, and he flicks his tongue over her clit. The sharp, surprised moan makes him shiver. She sounds like no woman he's ever heard - he hears her, long after he's left her, and he's fallen asleep too many times with come on his belly and her name on his lips. Try as he might, he can't shake her. She's gotten inside of him now, burrowed deep under his skin, and he can't stop himself from coming back to her again and again. Just once more, he tells himself. This is the last time.

But it's never the last time.

"God, you're so good at that," Jennifer breathes. Derek likes how she talks when he's between her thighs. "You're so good, your tongue, fuck, I... Derek, I..."

Derek can tell when she's close, because her hips move faster. She bucks against him more wildly, chasing that feeling, desperate to get herself over the edge. She wails when she comes, fingers digging into his scalp, and Derek's pretty sure he sees stars. He licks her through it, thick fingers filling her, and he sucks on her clit as she gasps and shudders. She drives him crazy when she comes.

He kisses his way slowly up her belly, leaving a trail of wetness, and smiles at the pleased little sound she makes when he tongues over her nipple. "God, you taste good."

"Do I?" she asks. Her tone is light, like he hasn't just devoured her, and he settles easily atop her.

"You drive me crazy," he breathes, nuzzling her neck.

Her fingers trail over his back, nails just sharp enough to leave a little sting. A reminder. A warning.

"I know."

* * *

56\.   
Derek had kind of expected Stiles to say no, to just flat out refuse and laugh at him. Instead he’d gotten that goofy grin that he often did and bounded up, kissing Derek like his life was ending. And yeah, he knew what that felt like because that kind of kiss had happened once or twice before. Derek should’ve known better really, because Stiles is always 110% all in on everything, especially when it involves his dick. 

So now here he is, sweating on his bed and uncomfortably hard in just his boxers while Stiles thumps around in the bathroom so he can “slip into something more comfortable.” When he comes out he’s wearing his gray hoodie and jeans, and Derek has to fight to keep the slightly disappointed frown off his face.

Stiles crawls over the foot of the bed, up the long stretch of Derek’s legs and settling over his thighs. Derek blinks at him, opens his mouth as if to speak, and then Stiles is pressed up against him and kissing him, tongue slipping out to lick at the corners of his mouth. Derek groans into it, paws at the too-many layers of clothes Stiles has covering him, fisting into the cotton of his shirt and drawing it upward so he can run his fingers all over the smooth skin.

“Nuh-uh, big boy,” Stiles says with a grin into Derek’s lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth and sucking lightly. The slight sting sends a buzz over Derek’s skin, makes his tongue feel thick behind his teeth, his throat tight with nerves. “You wanted a show, you’ll get a show.”

Derek pushes his head back against the wall as Stiles grinds down into him, wrapping his hands around Derek’s wrists and holding them down to the bed. Derek could easily overpower him, but he doesn’t. He lets Stiles move him where he wants him, lets Stiles brush his cherry red lips across his chest, leaves his hands where Stiles tells him to leave them.

Stiles crosses his arms to tug off his shirt, his body stretching up in the process, chest sleek and strong. Derek feels himself pitch forward, a bit desperate to get his hands on what’s his, to trace patterns on the smattering of moles, especially those ones clustered near Stiles’ hipbone and dipping downward. Derek manages to keep his fingers to himself, gripping into the sheets, and Stiles smiles at him beatifically. 

“Good boy.”

Derek curves his hips upward at the words, warmth spreading over his skin like summer heat.

Stiles shimmies off of him and raises to his knees, makes a show of popping open the button of his jeans and slipping them down his hips just enough to reveal a tiny bit of black lace. The glistening head of his cock is peeking out the top, pink and gorgeous, and Derek groans and tightens his fingers into fists.

“Can I…?” he grunts out, his dick squeezing out precome and wetting the front of his boxers.

“Not yet,” Stiles teases, shifting over and pulling his jeans down the rest of the way. Derek’s throat goes dry as he takes in Stiles’ body, pale and thin, all legs and elbows and black lace panties clinging to him perfectly. The long line of his cock is obscene, the pink flesh pressed tight against his belly by the lace, the dark fabric a stark contrast to the white luster of his skin.

“Do you like it?” Stiles asks, and Derek draws hooded eyes upward, his nostrils flaring as he scents the arousal in the air and a bit of nervousness on Stiles’ part as he awaits the answer.

“Yes,” Derek finally manages once his brain starts functioning again. “Please?” One word sentences are all he’s capable of at this point.

Stiles nods and Derek surges forward, hands searching everywhere, over the peak of a nipple, the flat of Stiles’ belly, the tip of his leaking cock. Stiles groans beautifully when Derek closes his paw-like hand over the front of the panties, squeezing him gently. They press down to the bed, Derek weighing Stiles down, Stiles’ legs spreading easily beneath him.

“So fucking gorgeous,” Derek purrs as he plays with the edges of the black lace, brushing along the base of Stiles’ balls that don’t quite fit behind the fabric and making him absolutely shudder. “Want to make a mess in your pretty panties for me, baby?”   
Stiles tips his head back and moans.

* * *

57\.   
"Stop," Stiles said, managing to push the sound out of his throat as he slid along the wall. "You don't... don't have to..."

There was a smile that appeared, a curl of lips underneath eyes that held laughter like a scream, and then there were hands on him. His own hands, but not. "I don't _have_ to do anything. But, seriously, here. Don't you know how beautiful your chaos is?"

Stiles let himself slide further down, his knees bent uncomfortably, angry at himself for not being stronger even though he knew, rationally, that strength didn't really matter much when something supernatural wanted to get you. "Yeah, beautiful chaos. That's me, alright! I'm, like, ninety percent flailing arms, but it's so beautiful! Granted, I guess I can't really be a virgin sacrifice anymore, but it would've been nice if I'd actually had something to do with it. I guess it's not the worst thing to just be wanted for my body?"

"Your mind," said the man who looked like a more confident version of Stiles. "That's where the beauty lies. You're not aware of the depths of your subconscious. You think that you're just a bench warmer for everything, not just lacrosse, because you haven't learned to control that chaos." His doppelganger pulled him back upright. "That's the beauty, Stiles. That's why I came to you."

Shivering, Stiles let himself rest against the wall and tried not to think about how the body in front of him was one he knew so well because it was his own. At least, it had been his own until the Nogitsune had wedged its way inside and had his wicked way with Stiles' life. Most people never saw themselves. Mirrors and photographs were always off enough that a person's brain could change details. Twins catalogued their differences and heralded them. The Nogitsune, though, was Stiles down to the line of 4 moles that traced from his left ear along his cheek. It was beyond unnerving. It was terrifying.

The Nogitsune crouched in front of Stiles, grabbing him and dragging him to meet his gaze. "You're going to touch me like you've always wanted someone to touch you and you're going to cry, but you're going to love it." His fingers closed too tightly around Stiles' wrist and pulled it down until his knuckles brushed against the outline of his doppelganger's cock. "You know you want this."

The sad part was that Stiles did. He wanted it desperately. He had never been good with temptation, so having this chance to do something that no one else ever had? He couldn't say no. He was all too willing, even through the terror. Splaying out his fingers, he let them run down the length of the Nogitsune's cock, his own breath hitching at the look that crossed the doppelganger's face. He was all too certain it mirrored his own, but it pushed him to work toward divesting them both of their clothing.

Twin mouths and twin sets of hands worked on twin cocks, the pair of them stuck in some kind of feedback loop where they learned how to apply the knowledge of what they liked on themselves toward others, even if all of that knowledge was only coming from Stiles' mind. In a way, Stiles thought it was the best teaching method ever. But knowing that he was willingly giving himself over to something like passion with a creature that had killed while wearing his face? It made him anxious and tense even as he came too quickly like the teenager he was. 

He looked, breathless, at his own face, stomach twisting at the smile there. "Strife," Stiles said softly. "Even here in the end, it's all about strife."

The Nogitsune stroked his face almost reverently for a moment. "I have to eat to live. I can't help it that you just taste better than anyone else."

* * *

58\.   
"Don't you think the twitching is a little much?" Derek asks from the bedroom doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame.

Stiles' feet give another little twitch. His hands, too, though the effect is blunted by the sheet they're trapped it. "Save me," Stiles begs.

"You are ridiculous. How do you even get tangled up in these things?" Derek mutters, working to free Stiles hands and his frustrated, pouting face. Derek gave up on trying to tame Stiles' sticky-out hair a long time ago. He's resigned himself to its charm and copes as best he can. Most days.

"It is a _sheet_ , Derek. Why can't I fold it? I have a Master's degree. Surely I'm smart enough to know how to fold a fitted sheet by now?!"

With his full attention on Stiles, Derek wrangles the sheet into some semblance of order and proceeds to fold it. "My mom was the smartest person I know, and she still left the laundry to my dad." Which is how Derek learned. Derek's seen the sheriff wrestle with folding things a time or two as well; it seems a little cruel to point out to Stiles he was probably to young for his mom to teach him those things. And as long as Stiles has his own underwear drawer, far away from Derek's, there's no point to it, either.

The sudden quiet draws his attention back to the task at hand, to the neat pile of sheets on the bed and Stiles sprawled out next to them, leaning back on his elbows, his legs open in a wide vee, drawing Derek's eyes up his slim thighs to the bulge growing in his pants. The arched eyebrow is a reflex by now, Derek's sure.

Stiles smirks. "I never thought I'd have a domesticity kink," he says by way of explanation, and throws in a quick flourish with his fingers. "And yet here we are."

"I was folding a sheet!" Derek argues, trying to ignore the flash of heat in his groin and his face.

"And looking hot while doing it!" Stiles hooks a heel behind Derek's knee and draws him close. "Now get over here so I can suck your dick."

"Such a sweet talker," Derek murmurs, but his hands are in Stiles' soft hair, Stiles' fingers are working his jeans open, Stiles' palms are skimming down Derek's legs. Derek's dick is in the hot wet clutch of Stiles' mouth and all Derek can do is ride it out, eyes closed to better ignore Stiles plump red lips and dark, teasing eyes.

Stiles uses every trick he knows; his tongue swirling at the tip, sucking Derek's balls, dragging his fingernails through the hair on Derek's thighs. It has Derek wishing he were on the bed with Stiles on his knees; he's kind of wiped from moving (from Stiles leaving all the heavy lifting to Derek) and Stiles' mouth is devastating on a _good_ day. Like this, Stiles tugging at Derek's foreskin with his lips, Derek can only fist his hands in Stiles' hair and hope for the best.

Stiles' fingers are what does it, in the end; brushing warm and dry over Derek's hole, paired with a pleased hum, a wordless request for Derek to open his eyes. The look on Stiles' face is too much, too open, and Derek's orgasm hits in a slow, sweet wave, Stiles' rhythm softening to keep up with Derek's hitching hips.

Derek's legs feel like jelly, after, and it's nothing for him to collapse into Stiles, for Stiles to use the momentum and roll them onto their sides, away from the pile of clean sheets. The hot press of Stiles' dick against Derek's thigh is unmistakable, but Derek doesn't quite have the coordination to help, even though he wants to. So much.

"It's okay," Stiles breathes into Derek's ear, squirming around. Derek tilts his head toward Stiles' face, toward the earthy scent of come on his breath, but can't open his eyes to see what Stiles is doing. And then he doesn't have to. The sticky press of skin-on-skin is unmistakable, and it's kind of nice to lay there and let Stiles do the work.

Less nice is the mess Stiles makes all over Derek's thigh. Made worse by one slim finger dragging through it in random circles. A telltale sign that Stiles is plotting.

"I wonder other household chores are going to turn me on," Stiles says, eventually.

Derek sighs.

* * *

59\.   
His name is Stiles.

He hasn’t been Stiles in a long time.

Stiles was moving out before his mom even died. When the demon moved into his body, it didn’t ask for permission, because it had no power.

It said sweet things to Stiles and told him to do things that would be fun. Banging his head against the wall when he didn’t get his way, hiding mommy’s pill bottles. It didn’t mean anything. They were just games.

When mommy goes, it goes into hiding, because Stiles stops speaking to her. She disappears into the nothingness of how empty he feels. She says something nasty about mommy leaving because Stiles killed her and he goes into a fit of terror. He can’t quite catch his breath and there are tears making his eyes burn, but when Stiles finally calms Amara is but a whisper in the back of his mind.

******************************************************************************************

Sometimes Stiles thinks he made her up. Amara was nothing but a game to him. A quick fancy of childhood imagination, and sometimes only a fleeting memory.

It stops being a game when he loses control over his own body and she comes back. The Nogitsune leads him on a rampage through Beacon Hills, and when they win that battle Stiles can hear her again.

She laughs idly about all the fun he had, and promises he’ll have more.

At first he trips up fellow classmates and then he’s daring Lydia to scream for him. Cajoles her into it when he knows she’s trying to tamp it down. Lydia can feel the draw of someone about to die, and by keeping her scream inside she is keeping them alive. Amara slides right into Stiles’ veins, however, and murmurs in her ear that she can’t tamp it down.

“Let it out,” Stiles says, curl of his lip against her red hair and Lydia gives in. A sharp, ratcheting sound that seems to go on forever. A listless echo down every dark corridor and breaching through the tops of trees to hit the very sky above.

Three end up dead.

One is already on their way to the hospital, strapped to a gurney and an oxygen mask helping them to breathe when the pulsing of their blood stops. The others are being cut out of their misshapen, upside-down vehicle. Their bodies becoming limp against the seatbelts, and red continuing to drip down to the roof below them.

Amara laughs inside Stiles’ head; using his body to lean into Lydia and breathe in her hair, skate his hand down her waist.

Lydia shivers, pulling away. She doesn’t seem frightened, but she studies him and Stiles wonders if she sees the Nogitsune when she looks. If she remembers the way his cold, clammy hands felt when he cornered her against cold, steel bars.

Amara schools his expression though, and Lydia shakes her head like it is only her mind playing tricks on her.

Stiles screams for her to keep looking. To watch the monster that is using his skin and hands and face to make things wrong again.

“It’s not often a girl gets up inside a boy like this,” Amara whispers. Laughs at him, really. “We’ll have to fix that.”

It only takes two weeks and Lydia is pinning him to the bed. She’s careful and precise as she gets herself up inside him with the dick that’s belted into place. It’s blue and thick and Amara is making Stiles whine for it. She’s using his voice to beg, when Stiles wants to scream as Lydia holds his shoulder and tells him how beautiful he looks.

Stiles was getting over her. He was trying to move on, and now Lydia has been spun into a web of lies using him to turn everything to dust and being charming in ways that he never was.

It’s Derek that looks at him as if he knows there is something off. Amara hears him whispering to Scott after he looks at Stiles longer than he should.

“His eyes look almost black,” he mumbles, trying to be discreet. A heartbeat passes and Stiles can feel the pull of his iris turning back to honey. Scott searches Stiles’ gaze, but doesn’t see a difference and Stiles screams inside his own head, pleading to be heard.

His name is Stiles, but he’ll never be Stiles again.

* * *

60\.   
Stiles woke up to the sound of a machine being turned on, the gentle buzzing bringing him out of his haze. He couldn’t see despite his eyes opening. His mouth was pried open, held that way so that he couldn’t help but drool as his head hung downwards. As he tried to lift it, pull up with his hands, he realized they were bound. He tugged, grunting as he squirmed. Held in the air with straps, one behind his back, another under his ass, the last hooked his knees; he couldn’t get purchase.  
Panic ripped through him as he realized that he was naked in a cool room so much so that his nipples were hard. He twisted his wrists, trying to get free as he attempted to swallow, whimpering.

Footsteps around him made him still, his chest heaving. He wasn’t alone, of course he wasn’t. Someone had to put him there, had to gag and bind him. Stiles shivered as he remembered the machine that had woken him up. Stiles flinched when he felt something sharp drag across his neck: a claw. Stiles tried to scream, but it came out as a gargle. The claw grazed across his nipple, making his back arch.

“So responsive,” a familiar voice whispered. Stiles let out a pained groan, his body wanted to react to the touch, but as his cock began to stir, something stopped it from happening. An amused laugh by Stiles’ ear sent a chill down his spine. “I knew taking you would be worth it.” A hand cupped Stiles’ cock, but he could barely feel it. Something was between the clawed hand and his skin, something hard. “You’re mine, now. No use in fighting it. It will hurt, at first, being denied even a simple erection.” Stiles tried, in vain, to get away from the touch, thrashing around. “Now, now,” the voice said, gripping Stiles’ balls and squeezing them until tears ran down Stiles’ cheeks. “None of that.”

The voice was smooth, and so very familiar, but Stiles couldn’t concentrate on it as the claw dragged over his balls.  
“Let’s see how much you can take.” Stiles shook his head, whining as the sound of the machine picked up. Suddenly, there was something pressing against Stiles’ opening slowly. It disappeared, then reappeared again, pressing inwards easily. Stiles panted, his fists clenching as he realized what it was: a fucking machine. “While you were passed out I took the liberty of opening you up. You belong to me, now.” Stiles sobbed as the pace quickened. The dildo breached him completely, stretching him out painfully. As the machine continued on, slowly fucking him, he couldn’t stop crying.  
Hands cupped his face, wiping away his tears as they angled his face downward. Stiles’ breath hitched in his throat as he closed his eyes despite not being able to see. The machine thrusted in and out of him, its pace quickening again, making him sway in the swing with the force. He felt as though he was being split in two as a hand wrapped around his throat, claws digging into his flesh. 

With his mouth forced wide, he couldn’t do anything as the head of a cock slid against his tongue, smearing precome across his lips and chin. Stiles gagged, choking as it forced its way into his mouth, drool dripping down his cheeks uncontrollably. As his captor thrust into his mouth, the machine fucked into him, it’s own movements becoming harsher, deeper.   
“You look beautiful like this,” he said, shoving his cock down Stiles’ throat, stilling there. Stiles couldn’t breath as he was held still, the pace of the machine unrepentant. When his mouth was empty once more, Stiles coughed, gasping for air as best he could. “Your filthy mouth red, dripping wet.” Stiles could hear it, that he was jacking off over him. “I can’t wait to knot you, to claim you.” Hot bursts of come covered Stiles’ chest and chin, his own cock aching from being forced to remain limp in its cage. Stiles moaned with every thrust, his arms tugging at his restraints, unable to stop. The machine was turned off, leaving Stiles feeling empty, his ass raw. 

When the eye mask was lifted, Stiles closed his eyes at the bright light. Eventually, he was able to open them. He whimpered, curling inwards as he saw Deucalion standing over him, smirking down at him.   
“We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I.”

* * *

61\.   
"One, two, buckle my shoe."

Stiles sings softly, shoes scraping softly across the wooden hallway floor of the old abandoned house in the woods. There's no electricity, and the pitch black is a velvety echo of the aching darkness inside of him, only lightened by the caress of the moon.

He hears a sound in one of the rooms to his right, and his head snaps around. A slow smile stretches across his face and he turns, keeping his pace even as he enters the bedroom.

"Three, four, shut the door."

The door closes with a soft click. The room is silent now but he knows better.

She's in here.

She thinks she can _hide_.

"Five, six, pick up sticks."

Stiles picks up a heavy chunk of wood and sees a shadow shift under the bed. Dropping down, he bends to peek underneath and is met with huge, beautifully terrified eyes.

Stiles tsks. "It's so dusty under there. Why don't you come on out and let me take care of you?"

He reaches to pull her out and she screams, kicking at him. Stiles chuckles and easily catches an ankle, dragging her out into the open. She's still screaming, tears running down her dirty cheeks, nails going bloody as she claws at the floor in an effort to get away.

"Now, now, there's no need for all that," Stiles says, and bashes her on the head with the chunk of wood. She goes limp, and Stiles nods in satisfaction. 

"Seven, eight, lay them straight."

She's light, and Stiles easily picks her up and lays her flat on the bed. Her head lolls to the side and Stiles uses the cords secured to the bedposts to spread her out and tie her down.

Then he strips naked and crawls up the bed to straddle her waist, already achingly hard. He rips her shirt open – ooh, no bra, _naughty girl_ – before sliding one hand under the pillow. Stiles grins widely when he finds a bottle of lube and his favorite butt plug. "Don't worry," he cheerfully tells her silent form, "this isn't for you."

Stiles coats the plug with the lube and reaches back to push it into himself, lips parting on a groan. He works it in and out until the widest part is stretching his rim, but he doesn't take it all the way.

"I see you found your gift."

Stiles looks around at where Derek is standing in the now open door, as naked and hard as Stiles, taking in the scene with a desperate, hungry gaze.

"She's beautiful," Stiles breaths. "She's going to bleed so perfectly."

Derek grins and stalks forward, wrapping his fingers around Stiles' wrist and pulling both his hand and the plug away. "Happy anniversary," he murmurs lovingly into Stiles' ear.

Derek places his other hand between Stiles' shoulders and pushes him forward, until Stiles hums happily and rubs his face against the girl's naked breasts. He feels the tip of Derek's dick against his hole, and a second later Derek slams all the way in, his huge dick stretching Stiles so, so wide. Stiles cries out and then laughs manically, the pain of being so forcefully taken sending waves of incredible pleasure through him.

"Fuck yes, baby, just like that."

Derek fucks him _hard_ , just the way Stiles likes, the very tips of his claws digging into Stiles' hips and drawing pinpricks of blood. Stiles clings to the girl below him, even when she wakes up and starts to scream and cry again.

"So good, so good," Stiles moans, and nuzzles at her tits, sucking one of her nipples into his mouth. He keeps sucking as Derek keeps fucking, and only releases her when he feels Derek's knot start to grow and catch on his rim. "Fuck _yes_ , knot me, make me your bitch –"

Derek growls, snapping his hips forward and shoving his knot deep as it swells and locks them together. Stiles comes with a hoarse scream, dick jerking almost violently as he makes a mess of the quietly sobbing girl beneath him.

After a few long, blissed-out moments, Derek leans forward and curls Stiles' fingers around a small silver blade. Together, they lift the dagger and slide it over the girl's pale, pretty throat, watching as her blood runs red over her skin.

Derek presses a kiss to Stiles' ear and whispers, "Nine, ten, start again."

* * *

62\.   
The sheriff couldn’t really put in words just how much of a relief informing his son and Allison about his relationship to Chris had been. For one, he didn’t like lying, especially not to Stiles. Secondly, it was immensely satisfying to be able to take Chris out to dinner without feeling like he was in the middle of a heist, constantly glancing over his shoulder. Thirdly, spending intimate moments in the backseat had been hell on his back (though they were stuck in the car like teenagers, John for one found it painfully obvious he wasn’t as flexible as one anymore) and the last time they took a motel for two hours, he had been fairly sure the receptionist thought Chris was a rent boy.

Spending more time with him at home revealed details of the unimportant and interesting sort, the kind John had missed knowing about his partner. Chris’ desk was usually orderly except for when he had to deal with official taxation documents, which he found boring and would ignore until right before the deadline. His coffee was always black and so were his socks, so they immediately got mixed up with John’s in the laundry. He kept a photo of Allison, kindergarten aged and dressed up as a pirate, in the drawer of his nightstand. He never paid attention to sports enough to even remember team names, but he liked having it running in the background while he cleaned his guns.

There was another little thing he found out about after a week or two. When John fell asleep Chris was usually still awake and reading. Entering Chris’ house after his night shift one evening and walking up to the bedroom, John saw that the lamp on the bedside table was still on. Chris’ book laid closed on the ground and John smiled, imagining how it had slowly slipped from his grasp as he sank into sleep. He leaned over and switched off the light before he moved quietly into the bathroom.

When he came back, the light was back on and Chris opened his eyes at the sound of his footsteps.

“Hey. Didn’t mean to wake you. You can turn it off, I’ll find my way,” John said as he walked over to the bed.

There was a short moment of hesitation, but then Chris said: “It‘s okay. I don’t like the dark.”

John paused in folding back the blanket.

“Sorry, what?”

“I know what can hide there,” Chris said.

John had to give Chris that – people from the world he had grown up in probably would think wandering into a dark cellar was as save as playing on the train tracks. Still, it wasn’t the sort of thing you expected to hear from someone who could beat up a Navy SEAL. Come to think of it, though, he had noticed before that the light was on when he got up for the early shift, but he’d simply assumed Chris liked to read until his eyes fell shut.

“If it bothers you, I can shut it off,” Chris said, turning his head to look at him.

“No, it’s alright. But maybe we could get one of those little nightlights. Stiles used to have one with a teddy bear on it...”

Chris pushed against his chest with both hands, grinning lopsidedly, movement sluggish with sleep, and John used the chance to pull him into his arms.

It was late in the night and John was as tired as Chris looked, but he actually liked the simmering, hazy, slow burn as they kissed, skin to skin, touches long and thorough until Chris’ hand eventually slid down into his shorts. However, before John reached out to reciprocate, he pulled down the blanket, unveiling Chris’ muscular body covered in soft hair and scars, faint and angry red alike, old and new, a pattern he loved to follow with his eyes.

“What’re you doing?” Chris asked, looking up, his eyes ice blue even in the twilight.

“Enjoying that the light is on,” John said with a smile.

* * *

63\.   
She’d come to Derek first but he couldn’t appease her. _Wouldn’t_.

+

Stiles smells like flop sweat and confusion. Derek watches his gaze flick between Morrell’s darkly amused face and the mountain ash encircling her.

Smile becomes smirk. “What do you think, Stiles?” she asks in that saccharine-sweet voice of hers, lips pursing. Her eyes dart up, ringing white and Derek knows those eyes. _Hates_ those eyes. “Permanent darkness? An eternal eclipse? You know what it does to werewolves but did you know it affects all magic? Renders it inert.”

She’s going to ruin everything Derek’s worked so hard to protect. And he can’t stand by and watch it happen. He slinks out of the shadows.

“Get away from him.” The words stick, lodging in his throat.

Gone is seduction and in its place is fury. “You’ve unbalanced an entire town.”

Derek doesn’t care. He eyes the circle, flexes his claws. “I will kill you,” he promises.

“I know exactly what you’re capable of, Derek Hale.” Her eyes flash, voice drops. “He’s an abomination.”

Derek flinches, remembers Stiles’ lips forming the word long before—before—

“Derek?” It’s a broken exhalation, the voice of someone who already knows something’s wrong.

“Tell him,” she spits.

He won’t.

Her face contorts and she turns to Stiles herself. “No town is this unlucky. Deep down, you know it.” Derek can see tumblers clicking into place, doesn’t know how to stop it happening. “So many who died young, so much life stolen.” She’s almost whispering now. “Those who aren’t meant to have it always run through it more quickly.” To Derek, she says, “Tell him or I _show_ him.”

Derek _can’t_ and she moves the moon.

Stiles’ heartbeat doesn’t so much as stutter. The world goes dark and so does he. He collapses, heavy, consciousness snuffed out. Silent, still.

Dead.

Something in Derek breaks seeing it again and he can’t help the mournful howl that erupts from him. He’s half-shifted, half-wild. He slams into the barrier of mountain ash—too elemental to be broken—snarls around fangs, “Undo it.”

She only smirks. “You’re not sure how long is too long, are you? How dead is too dead for the spell to keep him going?”

Derek rages, her eyes go white and light spills back in.

Stiles’ heart beats and Derek sinks to his knees in a bone deep relief. There’s no way to hide it now, Stiles is too curious, too sure there’s something to be curious about. Derek says bluntly, “You died in Gerard’s basement.”

Stiles’ whole body jerks.

Derek swallows, he can’t stop now he’s started. “Once he finished wiring up Erica and Boyd, he did the same to you. I found you, my family had—there was a spell—you weren’t supposed to _die_.” The words tumble together, Stiles’ blank eyes on cold cement at the forefront of his mind. “When Boyd died, I knew.” He’d watched them all follow—ending in Allison. Their stolen life feeding Stiles’.

“Death’s been trying to correct the imbalance,” Morrell says, almost gently, from behind them.

Fuck. This, too, then. Derek grits his teeth, eyes wet, and says, “It was a surge of electricity, _again_.” That damn aluminum bat. “The spell wouldn’t have worked twice.” His breath catches, voice shaking, and he can’t look at Stiles. “The nogitsune was _right there_.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles breathes, shattered.

He knows now, what Derek’s done, what he knowingly handed him over to. The nogitsune was the only way to fix what was broken. It had been worth it. Worth _anything_.

“This is—You have to let me go. Derek, this isn’t my life.” He’s staring down at his own hands, lost. “It’s _stolen_. You have to—”

Derek surges up, wraps arms around him, heads off the oncoming panic attack as best he can with the warmth of his body. “Forgive me,” he whispers hoarsely, sinking his claws into the back of Stiles’ neck.

Taking the memory exhausts them both. Stiles’ eyelids flutter, close, and Derek stands on unsteady legs.

“Tell him again and I rip out your spine.”

Morrell dips her chin.

+

Derek takes Stiles to the loft, after. He pushes him against the door, kisses him hard. Stiles kisses back, makes a confused, contented sound into it, and when Derek takes him to bed and fucks him for the first time, he goes willingly.

He won’t remember what Derek’s done to keep him there, only that Derek wants him to stay.

* * *

64\.   
Stiles wasn’t always like this. Derek can still remember the boy he met in the woods, whose limbs flailed and mouth moved endlessly with fear and nerves and excitement. Derek never thought he'd miss _that_ boy. Stiles the teenager had always been irritating, frustrating, _never-ending_ , and Derek had fast grown tired of his presence.

Until Stiles went from teenage to possessed, from possessed to lost, from lost to... _this_.

The sarcasm's still there, but it's different. It's twisted and bitter and _dark_ , and Derek doesn't know how to fix it.

"No one knows how to fix _you_ ," Lydia said once, when Stiles was lying in a hospital bed again. " _You_ can't be fixed. Neither can he."

She was right. No one can fix Derek. Derek's been broken so many times, he'll never be the same again.

*

"What are you doing?" Derek gasps. He's sweating from his work-out, his pants are being dragged down his legs, and Stiles is resolutely staring up at him.

"I want this," Stiles says, eyes unblinking, fingers firm against Derek's hips. "Don't you?" 

His heart's not a beat out of sync. 

Derek is terrified.

*

The first time Derek realises he's far too invested than is safe, Stiles is beating the shit out of a rogue werewolf. Blood is gushing from the broken body, coating Stiles in a blanket of wet red, until Scott lays a hand on Stiles' arm to forcibly quiet him.

"Hey man," Scott says, grip tight, "it's over."

Stiles stares numbly at the corpse, flecks of blood sliding down his face. 

"It's over," he murmurs to himself, and Derek closes his eyes against the tremor that travels through his skin.

*

"Fuck," Stiles moans, forcing himself down onto Derek's cock; he'd barely scissored himself open with his three fingers before he was pushing Derek onto the bed and eagerly straddling him. " _Fuck_ , I dreamt about how you'd feel inside of me, so big and--oh _fuck!_ Derek, _Derek_ \--"

Derek can do nothing but let Stiles take, take it all until there's nothing left behind.

*

"How do you stop?" Stiles asks, eyes bright and dark in the night.

Derek glances at him as they trudge through the forest. "Stop what?"

Stiles rolls his shoulders, refusing to meet Derek's eyes. "The guilt. Does it ever stop?"

Derek looks away; ducks a branch and lifts it for Stiles' sake. "No."

Stiles is silent for a long time, until:

"Do you want it to?"

Derek's steps falter for a moment, but it's enough. He swallows hard and keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

"No."

*

 _I love you_ , Stiles mouths into Derek's jaw, like he can't _hear_ it travelling through his skin, reverberating in the depths of his chest.

"I miss you," Derek says, sliding a possessive hand through Stiles' hair.

Stiles looks into his eyes, confused. "I'm right here."

Derek's smile is sad as he thumbs the moles decorating the expanse of Stiles' neck. "I've got you," he murmurs.

Stiles' eyes flutter shut, arching into Derek's touch. "Don't let me blow away."

Derek holds Stiles tighter, their bodies fitting like jigsaw puzzle pieces. "I've got you," he says softly. "I've got you."

* * *

65\.   
“So let me get this straight. Argent pushed Scott out of the way and intercepted a spell meant to ‘bring out his dark side’?” Peter asked. Stiles sighed and ran his hands through his hair. 

“Yes. We’ve already told you twice, do we need to go over it again?” 

“No, I think I’ve got it now.” He glanced over at the window. “And now we have two of him.” 

“But different versions,” Stiles said. “One has all the positive qualities, such as…I don’t know, kindness and stuff. The other has things such as pride and greed and, basically, they’re embodiments of the seven deadly sins and seven heavenly virtues.”

“Such as lust and honesty,” Peter said. One of the men by the window smirked at him, and Peter pinned him as Dark Chris, which made the other Light Chris. Peter smirked back at them. 

“Ugh, no, I am not sticking around to watch your uncle have eye sex with a Chris clone, Derek,” Stiles said. “Come on, Scott, we have to get home, our parents aren’t working tonight.” He grabbed his friend’s arm and dragged him out of the loft. Derek frowned at Peter and the two Chrises. 

“You’re not doing that here. Out,” he ordered, pointing at the door. Dark Chris sauntered over and slid his arm around Peter’s waist. 

“We can go have fun at my place,” he murmured in his ear. 

“Out!” Derek barked. Light Chris looked vaguely ill as he herded them out the door. The ride over to Chris’s apartment was fast but boring, Peter forced to sit in the back and not be a distraction. They got upstairs without being seen, and as soon as they were through the door, Peter was being slammed against the wall and kissed within an inch of his life. He vaguely registered the other Chris closing and locking the door, then removing their shoes and jackets. When it looked like he was going to walk away, Peter broke the kiss and grabbed him. 

“Don’t worry about anything else. Stay with me,” he said against his lips. Light Chris blushed as Dark Chris grabbed his hips, grinding his cock into Peter’s ass. Peter’s shirt was lifted and tossed away and his pants soon followed, leaving him naked between the two. Dark Chris got his jeans down enough to get his cock out and pushed it between Peter’s thighs, rocking dryly. Light Chris looked unsure even as Peter opened his shirt one button at a time. He shared a look with his doppelganger over Peter’s shoulder, then ducked his head and took Peter’s nipple in his mouth. Peter moaned and dropped his head back, and a mark was sucked into his bare throat. 

“Bed,” someone muttered, and the three stumbled their way down the hall to collapse on Chris’s bed. Soon they were all naked, and Peter eyed Chris’s two cocks hungrily, deciding he wanted to suck one. Dark Chris was already reaching for the lube and Peter’s ass, so Peter manhandled Light Chris onto the bed so his legs were bent among the pillows. He lowered himself down on him, head to hip, while he was being fingered open. He sucked the cock into his mouth and heard both of them groan. 

“Yes, suck it,” Chris said behind him, fucking him with his fingers. Peter groaned as his cock was timidly licked and kissed, rocking his hips eagerly. Dark Chris hissed and the bed shifted with his weight as he climbed on behind Peter, entering him quickly with little finesse. Chris whimpered beneath him and groaned above. Nimble, calloused fingers sought out his nipples and balls as Chris fucked in deep and tongued his foreskin, and Peter nearly came just from that, his eyes rolling back. He gripped Chris’s thighs and sucked him to the root, both of them bucking into him. Dark Chris stabilized himself and started fucking Peter fast and hard, Light Chris choking on his cock below him. Peter figured out that flicking his tongue across the slit earned him hard thrusts and pinches to his nipples, and so the three of them quickly whipped each other into a frenzy. 

Unsurprisingly, none of them lasted long, Peter spilling into Chris’s mouth as they filled his ass and throat. They lay around afterwards in a sweaty tangle, Peter sandwiched neatly between them.

“So,” Peter said breathlessly after a moment. “Who’s up for round two?”

* * *

66\.   
In the moonlight with the curtains drawn, it's almost easy. They have a big bed, but they sleep close together, so Scott never feels too far away. Lydia likes that, it makes her feel good, makes it safe, safe the way Scott is safe. Scott is safe and sweet and good and his hands are soft, slow and gentle on her breasts the way his his mouth is on her thighs. He whispers please into her lips and uses his tongue to paint it on her skin, uses his fingers to press it into her over and over again until she's gasping his name. It feels good, to have someone who asks her opinion, who treats her like she matters, who is never rough unless she begs. 

She does, sometimes, or he will, and they spend a flashfire of moments biting each other's mouths and snapping their hips together, Lydia's nails on Scott's back and his fingers tangled in her hair. It's just teeth and claws and these sounds only he can wring out of her, sounds more earth-shattering than a scream. 

Easy. It's easy--almost easy. They fuck, they make love, they kiss, they cuddle. Scott wraps his arms around her. She cars her fingers through his hair. It's simple. It's _enough_. 

But it's different when the sun is up. The mornings are cold and they wake up with the sheets tangled--limbs, too--naked and cold. The room feels empty with just the two of them, and there's never enough time to talk about it. Scott has morning breath. Lydia always has smudged mascara and a full bladder. They don't go into work at the same time. 

Scott always says Lydia takes too long in the shower. She goes into work late, and his shift is usually early, but Lydia always showers first and uses all the hot water. Scott always comes in to brush his teeth and forgets she's in there and flushes the toilet. Lydia yells. Scott curses. Lydia spends half her shower freezing in the corner with soap in her eyes and a tangled, frozen mess of matted hair to deal with. 

It's not all bad. They make up with pleasantries and kisses. Scott makes coffee. Lydia reads the paper. Lydia finishes her make up and straightens the living room and Scott always asks to see what she's hungry for before he makes breakfast. Lydia's agreeable, usually goes for what Scott's having and a second cup of coffee. Scott makes great pancakes, and he lets Lydia pick out his ties. 

Scott moves around a lot when he's cooking. The kitten dances through his feet, climbs up his pant legs, bites at his ear. It's adorable, but it doesn't make Lydia feel any better. It doesn't make Scott feel any better, either. The kitten is cute, breakfast is nice, everything is fine, but there's nothing so adorable that it can make up for the lack of place settings at the table. They're not lonely, they're just alone, and not because it's morning: there are only two plates on the table because only two survived.

* * *

67\.   
“Fancy meeting you here.”

Derek groans at the sound of the too chipper voice behind him, and knocks back the rest of his whiskey.

“Now now, don’t be like that, “Stiles says, sliding smoothly into the seat beside Derek. He’s wearing a devil-may-care (ha) grin, and Derek has to fight the immediate visceral reaction that it evokes. 

“Stiles,” He says, hoping his voice comes out as emotionless as he intends. He has a bad feeling that he fails. “ _What_ are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, hanging out, committing general acts of mayhem and murder…tempting angels. The usual,” and then, after a long pause, he adds petulantly, “It’s all so booooring. Well, except for the tempting angels thing. I feel like there might be some potential there.”

“Bothering me, more like.”

“You are my favorite, Der. Hells, I like you more than pretty much all of my kind. Also, you have a nice dick. I’ve been thinking about it.”

Derek snorts. “Just because I happened to have made the mistake, _once_ , of letting you open your mouth instead of sticking my sword in you and ending you like I should have, it doesn’t mean you can just…” Derek trails off as Stiles shimmies into his space, wedging his way between Derek and the edge of the bar. He reaches one hand down to cup brazenly at Derek’s already half hard dick. 

“You protest too much,” Stiles says, “Also, I seem to recall that there actually was some sticking of swords before that particular night was over.” Stiles winks saucily. “I’m actually sort of hoping you might be tempted into doing it again. Whaddya say buddy ol pal?”

“How about no.”

Which is how they end up with Derek pressing Stiles against the wall of a pay by the hour motel room not even an hour later, Derek trying to kiss the sulphur and cinnamon taste out of Stiles’ mouth. 

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles rasps, tilting his head back even further when Derek clasps a hand, just on the edge of too tightly, around the column of his throat. Derek likes how it gives the illusion of Stiles being vulnerable. He likes it even more in contrast to the way Stiles ruts up against him, shamelessly riding the thigh Derek slides between his legs. 

“Gonna fuck me now?” He asks, shoving at Derek a little to get him moving back toward the bed. “Gonna spread me out and commit all kinds of sins with me?”

“Maybe I’ll make love to you instead,” Derek says, even though they both know that Derek’s never had the patience for it. He might be an angel, but he’s never been particularly good at it. Then again, Stiles had been an angel once too. Derek sometimes can’t help but wonder how different they really are.

“If you say so baby.” 

Stiles finally backs them up the last few steps until Derek’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and he falls back with a soft oomph. “This is gonna be fun,” Stiles decides, stripping out of his shirt and straddling Derek’s thighs in one smooth move, already angling his mouth for another kiss.

~~~

Derek grunts, his hips stuttering as his orgasm rips out of him. He can feel his wings extending out behind him, stretching and shuddering with his pleasure, even as he’s distantly aware of the cold leathery coil of Stiles’ tale gripping at one of his thighs, keeping him close and buried deep.

It takes Derek a moment to come back to himself, but when he does, it’s to the feel of Stiles pressing himself back against Derek’s dick in frustrated little rolls of his hips. He’s holding himself up on one hand, and there’s a rhythmic shifting of his body against Derek, as jacks himself off. 

“Let me,” Derek slurs into Stiles’ ear, and then he’s reaching around, knocking Stiles’ hand away so he can replace it with his own. His movements are slow and sloppy, but it must do the trick because not even a moment later Stiles is shuddering and coming, the forked tip of his tale digging deeper into Derek’s thigh, probably drawing blood if the sudden metallic tang in the air is anything to go by.

“Dude,” Stiles says triumphantly a few moments later, half buried beneath Derek’s collapsed weight. “Boss is gonna be so happy with me today.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but wonders, not for the first time, if sex with Stiles might just be worth it anyway.

* * *

68.  
This is what shame feels like, he realizes. He hasn’t felt it for so long. It’s been days and weeks and months since he’s felt anything in particular, other than a cheap satisfaction and necessary focus. But here he is, feeling disgraced, embarrassed, like he’s done something terribly, horribly wrong. 

He has. He’s not the kind of evil Machiavellian type who believes he’s in the right and everyone else is twisted. He does _know_ that slicing people’s throats is generally considered a heinous crime. Several heinous crimes. 

But he did it for him and he isn’t going to stop. Even if he wants him to. 

Scott looks so broken. Beaten. Not a single mark or scratch or scar, but he’s clearly been falling apart without him. And now he knows and it’s like whatever was left has been pulverized, ground into dust. 

“Stiles?” he asks, and it comes out croaky and dry.

“Yeah, buddy.”

“Tell me you didn’t do this and I’ll believe you. Tell me you were possessed again. Tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

Scott tears up and Stiles feels that nagging, clawing sensation low in his gut again. Half of him likes it. It’s better than being numb. 

“I’ve never been able to lie to you, Scott,” he replies. 

He ineffectually wipes the blood from his hand, sheathes his knife. He saunters close and Scott doesn’t flinch or step away. He can pull him tight with a hand clasped around his forearm. Scott’s heat is intoxicating and Stiles has been cold for too long. He smothers him in a hug, eyes closing involuntarily. For once, he isn’t at high alert. 

“All these people…” Scott begins, hands winding around his back like he has no choice but to place them there, like it never occurred to him to push Stiles away.

Stiles presses a kiss against Scott’s neck. “All these hunters.”

“You think that absolves you?” 

Scott sounds confused. It’s the most endearing thing Stiles has ever heard. 

“I think it gives me justification. They may not have been after you now, but sooner or later they’d try to take you from me and I couldn’t let that happen.”

Scott prises himself back so he can look in his eyes. He still has some hope there, in the depths of his despair. “You have to turn yourself in. You have to come clean. Talk to your dad, he’ll do something to get you the help you need.”

This is what shame feels like, but Stiles says, “Okay, I will. You have to do something for me first.”

“Anything.”

“Let me kiss you?”

Scott’s brow crinkles, his lips pout, but he nods. He even, tentatively, drags his hand up and cradles Stiles’ jaw. 

“You want to remember something good,” he murmurs, smoothing his thumb over Stiles’ cheekbone.

It’s as true as it is a lie and Stiles won’t negate it. He takes a shuddery breath, presses forward, seeks out Scott’s warm, wet mouth. Scott opens against him so sweetly, as natural as breathing, and Stiles takes advantage, deepens the kiss until they’re so tightly entwined nothing could tear them apart.

He drags his hands up under Scott’s shirt, can feel a smear of blood, but won’t let it stop him, he needs to touch. Scott doesn’t just allow it, he encourages it, returns it, skimming his hands over Stiles’ hips and rolling them together. Perhaps it’s desperation. Maybe it’s surrender. But Scott moans into his mouth and doesn’t protest when Stiles pops his jeans button, doesn’t squirm when Stiles wraps a spit-covered hand around him. He arches into Stiles’ slow, slick slide.

Scott whimpers, claws starting to poke through his fingers, lightly scoring where they’re pressed against his skin. Stiles has never felt so fragile and so powerful all at the same time. Scott’s cheeks are pink, his lips are glistening. Stiles tries to file the memory away, because he knows he’s going to want to remember this, Scott on the point of rapture. 

“I don’t regret it,” Stiles says, hushed, stroking Scott’s cock with a punishing, calculated rhythm. 

“You can’t mean that?” Scott chokes out, dark eyes beseeching. 

“I only regret the time we were apart,” Stiles admits. 

Scott comes with a full-bodied tremble, expression scrunching. Stiles takes the moment to unsheathe his knife and plunge it into his side. He was careful in his placement, made sure to avoid all major organs. It’s symmetry, he thinks. 

“Don’t follow me.”

This is what shame feels like.

* * *

69\.   
You're sitting at your desk, the dark wood stained and scarred. There's a tumbler half-full of whiskey by your side, the glass sweating in the heavy summer heat, ice long since gone. The fan turns uselessly overhead, pressing hot, humid air down on you. You've got your shirt sleeves rolled up to your elbows, a thin layer of sweat clinging to your forearms. Lydia’s out today, working on tracking down some deadbeat, so you’ve got the windows open as wide as they can go. There’s a fleeting breeze that feels like cool hands against your neck, but it’s gone more than it’s not.

 _Dad never had to deal with this_ , you think, leaning back in your chair. Sheriff of a small town didn’t come with many perks, but northern California was at least cooler than New York. Out here, it’s all dirt and grime and hot asphalt. Some days, like these, you miss the towering trees and the cool, soft breezes. But it’s 1948, and there’s really nothing for you in Beacon Hills. You knew that when you got back from the war, knew that living a quiet, peaceful life wasn’t something you could do anymore. The weather may occasionally suck, but living in New York fills a space in your chest that Normandy blew wide open.

You down your whiskey, the glass sticking to your fingers. It burns, the liquor sitting heavy in your stomach. There’s a knock at the door, and you set the glass on the desk. The sleeves of your shirt stick against your skin as you try to roll them down. You’re halfway out of your chair when the door slams open. The man who walks through is wide in the shoulders and lean in the hips, his dark hair lying across his forehead in a limp mess. His eyes, when they meet yours, remind you of stormy seas. There’s something deep beneath the surface, but you’ll never really know what. You finally get the sleeves down, your hands shaking suddenly, and button them at the wrist.

“How can I help you?”

“My sister, she…” he chokes out. He shakes his head, then shuts the door behind him. “She’s been missing for a couple of weeks. The cops haven’t done anything, and I just… I don’t know what to do.”

You nod, then direct him to the chair in front of the desk.

“If we’re talking about a standard missing person, that runs about twenty-five dollars a day, plus a five dollar per diem.”

He shakes his head, face ashen.

“I can’t afford that,” he says, running his hands through his hair, his head hanging.

Maybe it’s the liquor, or maybe it’s the taut bowstring of his shoulders in his crisp shirt, but something motivates you to reach out and lay your hand on the desk, drawing his attention upwards.

“Look, pal. I’m not trying to be tough here, but PI work is expensive, and that’s that. I’ve gotta eat, you understand?”

He nods, his eyes staying glued on your hand on the table.

“Save up a little money, then come see me, and we’ll get your girl back. Alright?”

You go to pull your hand away, but he stops you with his own. His fingers are a sudden excitement on your skin.

“There’s got to be something I can do,” he says, looking up at you through his eyelashes. “Some other way I can pay you.”

There’s a hot thrum below your skin, your pulse like a sudden gust of warm air. You slowly turn your hand so your palm is facing up, cradling his long, elegant fingers in your own. He threads his fingers in between yours, then slowly pulls your hand from the desk. You lean forward, your body flowing after his, until you’re half leaning on the desk, your fingers pressed against his mouth. He parts his lips, then slowly draws your middle finger in. His mouth is warm, his tongue pressed tight against your finger. There’s a sudden suction, and you feel it down in the soles of your feet. Your cock jumps in your slacks, pressing against the slightly damp fabric. You’re too warm, but for different reasons now.

“Yeah,” you say, voice choked and heavy. “Yeah, there’s something we can do.”

* * *

70\.   
Braeden's dark fingers contrasted strongly with Lydia's pale ass. She took a moment to admire and rub before swatting once. 

Lydia snorted, "I'm not even counting that." 

Braeden smirked, "Your call princess, either way you'll be counting to twenty." Braeden's hand came down again, making the fair flesh wobble. It was a medium hit, and normally Lydia would have counted it, but the woman was had a stubborn streak. Braeden didn't mind though, she was prepared for stubborn- she was excited for stubborn. 

Braeden just barely cupped her hand for the next hit, coming down far harder and louder than the previous. A 'one' slipped past Lydia's lips, and Braeden grinned victoriously. Lydia squirmed but didn't say anything more. 

She hit her four more times in rapid succession, forcing the numbers past Lydia's lips quickly. She paused after those hits, admiring the darkening flush spreading over her ass. Her fingers dipped lower and came up wet. 

"Well, well- someone's really excited tonight. Are you going to drip all over me, baby?" 

Lydia blushed, burying her face into the covers, and mumbled, " _No_." 

"Good. I'd hate to have to plug up your holes so early in the night," Braeden answered, caressing her cheeks once more before her hand came down again. Five more rapid slaps in succession and Lydia was holding her pose, but whimpering into the covers- and that wouldn't do. 

"Head up darling, if you're going to be noisy I'd like to hear it clearly," Braeden purred, and Lydia tilted up lightheaded. The next slap came suddenly at the crease between her thigh and the bottom of her cheek, and she cried out, quickly following the noise with a 'twelve'. 

At the sixteenth hit, Lydia could no longer hold position, her body slumping down. Usually she would berate her for it, but her legs had split open so perfectly, she couldn't stand the thought of Lydia moving them. So instead Braeden briefly cupped her sex, the damp heat just right against her palm. She slipped two fingers in and up easily, her girl was soaked, and Lydia whined when she removed them. 

"Four more," she said, dragging out the last hits. Lydia quaked and bit her lip, trying not to grind down against the legs beneath her. She had gotten herself off once during a spanking session and got put in the chastity belt for a week- she hadn't made the same mistake since. 

Braeden smiled contentedly after the twentieth spank- a double handed smack to the center of both cheeks- and admired the tormented globes. There were a few dark pink fingerprints around the edges, and two red points in her centers. Braeden pushed and pulled at the warmed skin, and Lydia let out a hiss. 

"You wanna keep going?" she asked. 

Lydia did, jumping up before her with her red curls at Braeden's lips. Her head swam for a moment, Lydia's lower lips before her glistening with moisture. 

"What number?" Braeden asked, lightly caressing her buttocks. 

"Six," Lydia answered, and slipped her hands into Braeden's curls, lightly scratching her skull. 

"Good," she murmured before pressing her face forward. Lydia was moaning before she even came close to her clit, too keyed up for extensive teasing. Braeden's mouth got to work on her labia, licking between all the creases and taking breaks to nip at her inner thighs. Her hands clenched Lydia's sore ass tightly, and the redhead shook at the sensations, locking her knees to stay standing. 

"More, please Brae," Lydia begged, neediness erasing any embarrassment. 

The older woman's tongue plunged into her at the request, and her nails lightly scraped at the bruised skin, making Lydia's hips jerk. Her tongue thrust deeper and her hands kept Lydia almost still as she gradually brought her to orgasm. Lydia came with a happy sigh, and sunk into Braeden's lap, cuddling into her instantly. 

Braeden's fingers moved to gently card through her hair, "You doing okay?"

Lydia tilted her head up to give her a sleepy smile and a peck on the lips, "Yeah... I've missed this." 

Braeden nuzzled into her neck, "Whenever you need it babe."

Lydia gave her a coy smile, "Oh really? In public?" 

"If you want an audience," Braeden answered. 

Lydia's lips twitched, "How about when I wake up in the middle of the night?" 

Braeden chuckled, "Only if you don't want to sit down the next morning." 

Lydia's eyes glittered, "I'm holding you to that."

* * *

71.  
"Can you even imagine it, Derek? The whole kingdom loves this little girl so much that they can't let her go. For all they know she's been dead for eighteen years, but they still hold on, they still wait for her to come back to them. Every year, they try to lead her back home. They love her that much."

"It's just a movie, Stiles," Derek says between sleepy breaths.

Stiles rests his head on Derek's bare chest, listening to his breathing evening out, trying with all his might to keep his next words inside, though they want to burst out of him.

Eventually, Stiles feels himself drifting off into that place between sleep and reality, where everything is fuzzy, and nothing has ever been clearer.

"I wish you loved me. Even half as much as that."

\---

Stiles wakes alone.

It _doesn't_ surprise him, he tells himself, but it also feels like a knife twisting in his gut. Every time he wakes up and Derek isn't there--which is _every_ time--he hates himself a little more, feels just a little more empty. It was supposed to be easy, this thing between them, casual. But he had feelings, and Derek didn't, and he thought it was better to have some of Derek than none of him, but he was wrong.

It has to end.

His heart rate speeds up, and his skin is clammy and claustrophobic. The walls of Derek's loft are closing in on him, forcing him out; even they know Derek doesn't want him here. He can't breathe, he can't _breathe_ , and all he wants is one more inhale of Derek's scent before he shows himself the door, but he can't breathe.

Then it isn't the walls closing in around him, but Derek. And he can't _do_ this, but he _wants_. And Derek has his arms around him, holding him close like he's something precious, and Stiles just...

"I don't know what to do anymore," he says. His voice is scratchy, his breath hiccupping. He clings onto Derek, only because he knows he has to let him go.

"Come with me," Derek says, getting up.

Stiles stares. Derek is still naked, but it's the expression on his face that makes him look vulnerable.

 _I should go_ , he means to say.

"Ok."

Derek leads him up the stairs in the loft. Stiles has never been up there and that should be some kind of sign, but he's thinking too hard about bolting for the door, clothes be damned. He's not sure how much more he can take from Derek without breaking their cardinal rule of casualness. 

He catches an unusual flicker of light in his periphery, but Derek is turning to face him and taking up all of his attention. 

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," he says, before pushing Stiles gently into the bedroom, hands resting on Stiles' waist.

Every surface is decorated with lit candles. Tiny paper lanterns dance from the ceiling to the rhythm of the breeze through the open window. The room is bright and warm and cozy, the candlelight tossing brilliance and shadow across the turned-down bed.

Slowly, Derek moves to face him, takes Stiles' face between his hands.

"I do love you, Stiles. Half as much, twice as much, hell, ten times as much as that. I never wanted to leave you, I just couldn't be the one left behind."

\---

Stiles sinks down on Derek's cock, slowly stretching himself as he gets closer and closer to being filled. Their hands are linked, Stiles' pressing Derek's down into the mattress.

Their hearts beat in a syncopated rhythm, never matching, but filling in the empty spaces the other leaves wide open.

They come quickly, for once not holding out til the last possible second, or holding on because they know the other will be gone come morning.

\---

When Stiles wakes, he is not alone. The candles are out, though the lanterns remain lit. He closes his eyes again, listens to Derek's heartbeat. This time, he doesn't count the beats until he must leave, but knows instead that each beat is for him.

* * *


	8. Group D (without warnings)

72.

* * *

73.

* * *

74.  
The Spark and the Wolf

* * *

75.

* * *

76.

* * *

77.

* * *

78.

* * *

79.

* * *

80.

* * *


End file.
